


A Blade in Reserve

by ehmazing



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, Coup d'état, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Government Conspiracy, Insurrection of the Seven, Slow Burn, The Slithers are here…just not where you think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23079001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: Tradition dictates that the eldest child of House Vestra serves the eldest child of House Hresvelg, who will one day become Emperor. There are no exceptions—even if someone else is more exceptional.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 94
Kudos: 122





	1. Inheritors. 1166-1171

Hubert didn’t have many memories of that first day. It was more of a lack of memory of a time before that, the blank space of his life before he was awoken one bright morning, dressed in his first black coat, and gifted to the Crown Prince of Adrestia.

The first glimpse of Antonius von Hresvelg always stood out. He lounged in his dining chair at the head of the imperial family’s table, his silk doublet so red in the morning sun that it made Hubert squint. He wiped a trail of duck-fat grease from his narrow chin as he looked Hubert over with stony grey eyes. Hubert looked back—until he felt the sharp prod of his father’s finger on his back, and ducked his head down.

Eyes fixed on the tiled floor, he could only hear the prince’s voice groan, “This tradition is ridiculous, Mother! He’s hardly older than Clement, and you expect me to tow him around wherever I go? He couldn't defend me from a cellar rat, let alone be of any use on a hunt!”

“This ‘ridiculous’ tradition has ensured the prosperity of House Hresvelg for seven generations," the Empress scolded from somewhere further down the table. “You’re sixteen now, Anton. A future Emperor needs a future Minister of the Imperial Household. By the time you ascend the throne, Gotfrid will have him well-trained, will he not?”

“Indeed, my lady,” said Hubert’s father. There was a rustle of wool as he bowed. “I assure you, Your Highness, that my son will be your most faithful servant, just as I have been to your father and my father to your grandfather.”

After another prod in the back, Hubert hastened to bow too. Years later, the motion would become more natural than breathing; on that first day, it felt more like an animal defense. He tried not to jump when Anton's chair screeched against the floor as he stood up.

“Fine,” Anton huffed. “What’s the stupid old phrase—Hubert von Vestra, do you accept the appointment of Minister to the Imperial Household upon my ascension, and do you pledge to serve the Empire and…to serve and uh…"

Hubert’s father assisted, “To serve the Empire, and the Empire alone, in the Goddess’ name until death.”

“Yes,” Anton picked up again. “Do you pledge all that?"

Hubert bowed lower without further prompting this time, and answered in a wavering voice, “I-I do.”

A hand was shoved under his nose, a fat golden signet ring glistening on its little finger. He tried to kiss it as quickly and gracefully as possible. The sour taste of the metal against his lips made him shiver.

“There,” grunted Anton as he snatched his hand back. “Is that all?”

“That is all. Nothing further is needed from you, Your Highness,” Hubert’s father answered. “My son is now in your service. You may command him as you wish.”

Hubert finally dared to look up again as his new liege walked back to the table, flopping into his chair as if exhausted by the whole event.

“Then you can stop making my birthday so dull, Gotfrid, and leave,” he ordered, pulling his half-finished plate back toward him. “And Hubert can wait by the door until I need any rats caught.”

His father left, and Hubert waited. That was all.

* * *

Monarchy wasn’t very complicated to a child. It was routine.

Every day, Hubert got out of bed at the first light of dawn, washed his face, dressed, and hurried to his father’s office. There he was handed Anton’s daily correspondence—already opened, read, and sealed expertly closed again the night before—and subjected to a quick once-over before his father deemed him fit to appear before the household. From the sliding panel in the wall, it was a quick walk through the servants’ passages to the imperial family’s wing.

The two chambermaids and the valet who served Anton’s quarters curtseyed to him at the door. Hubert would nod back and wait for them to take a position behind him before he turned the handle and entered, announcing:

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

To which Anton, beneath his blankets, would roll over and groan.

The degree to which Anton listened to the daily schedule could vary wildly, but Hubert always tried to deliver it faithfully while the valet was at work plucking stray threads from the royal shoulders and smoothing flyaway hairs on the royal head. When the schedule was finished, Hubert would ask for Anton's leave—"Granted. Out."—bowing again and departing.

The days all bled together. Hubert spent mornings with his tutor, afternoons in martial training and riding lessons, then whatever private study he could fit between his father’s errands until he returned to serve Anton again at the evening meal. To the outsider, their schedules looked much the same, but Anton was served a plated lunch whenever he called for it, whereas Hubert was lucky to scarf down whatever the cook saved for him while he hurried through the palace’s maze of corridors.

He played with other young servants sometimes: kitchen boys, maids-in-training, stablehands. But if any adult found them talking to him, the other children scurried away at once. These children had scabby knees and raw, red hands. They wore rough wool trousers and shirts that were more patches than cloth. Hubert’s shirts were trimmed with lace, all of his coats sewn from the finest black wool.

Only Imperial Ministers were allowed, by law, to wear such black.

It wasn’t difficult to serve Anton. It was harder to go before his father every night and perform his lesson recitations over and over until he got all of them right. If he didn't, he was treated to his father’s favorite lecture:

“The laws of this empire.” His father never liked to sit at a desk. He had a carpenter make a wide podium for his office, perfectly sized to his height. It reminded Hubert of the pulpit in the cathedral, enabling the bishop to loom over his flock as he preached. "The rules of the court. The appointments of the other Imperial Ministers and their duties. The noble houses and their lands, their estates, their children, their desires, their vices. You must know them all to run this household, Hubert.

“And most of all, you must know the Emperor—better even than you know yourself. I was only twelve when I made my pledge to His Majesty, and I have upheld that pledge every moment of my life since.” The rap of his father’s pen nib on paper could command an army to attention. “Empire and Empire alone, Hubert. Nothing else should come before it.”

“Yes, Father.” Hubert rubbed his tired eyes, vision blurry in the dim candlelight. “I’ll work harder.”

Night after night, the same crease on his father’s high brow, the same sigh: “I should hope so.”

* * *

Though he complained of Hubert's ‘hovering’ at first, Anton became used to his presence over the years, and then he was so used to it that he paid no attention. Hubert’s father was pleased. Going unseen, he told his son, was key to being efficient.

“Now you’re at liberty to study His Highness closely. Take note of his tastes. Anticipate what he’ll need before he needs it. Understand what he wants, and whether it would serve him to have it. Most of all, watch what may affect his moods, and learn them well.”

Anton had many moods and all of them delicate. He could float on the excitement of a new horse or war sword for hours, only to slip into a foul sulk all week if he took a teasing comment too seriously. The list of noble sons he called friends changed by the day. Hubert became well-practiced at dodging saucers, books, bottles of ink that found themselves in Anton's hands at a difficult time.

"But what do I do if he wants something I can't get, Father?"

"You're his closest confidante. You convince him otherwise."

 _How?_ Hubert thought, chewing at the inside of his cheek. _How do I do that when I'm invisible?_

His father made it look easy. Hubert watched him lean over the Emperor's throne during audiences, whispering into Ionius' ear after another minister finished making their case. His father's words could turn the Emperor's frowns to smiles and nods. Social calls came at all hours from lords and ladies seeking his father's advice, his father’s help, his final vote.

Hubert couldn't imagine ever being big enough to fit in his shadow—nor could he imagine Anton ever fitting in the Emperor's. He grew to suspect that Anton's shattered teacups and toppled chairs were his way of saying he felt the same.

Still, the Crown Prince wasn't without virtues. He'd always enjoyed the privilege of his own quarters, but he would visit and entertain his siblings in theirs. The youngest children still lived in the nursery under the care of nurses, while the others lived with their mothers, the consorts. Anton called on them often, and sometimes whole afternoons passed peacefully that way: Hubert trailing his master from beautiful room to beautiful room, watching him take tea with the consorts in their trailing silk gowns, children laughing and darting around them.

There was one bias:

“I don’t see why I have to go to Lady Patricia’s every single month, Mother.”

“Don’t be rude, Anton. It’s only tea.”

“She makes me recite my lessons as if I were still a child! _Father_ never makes me. And if Lord Arundel has slithered into town, you can bet he’ll be there too, grinning at me like I’m a dinner roll he’s about to butter up.”

“I certainly hope you show Lord Arundel more respect at tea than you speak here. His connections with the north have steadied our relationship with Faerghus, and your father values him highly for it. You should try to know him better; your sister Edelgard too.”

 _“Edelgard,”_ Anton muttered low enough that the Empress couldn’t hear, but Hubert did. _“It’s always about Edelgard.”_

* * *

Edelgard von Hresvelg was twelve years younger than her eldest brother, but the two of them had much in common. Like Anton, she had her own rooms and her own set of maids, servers, and tutors. Like Anton, she’d been blessed on her name day not by a priest at the cathedral in Enbarr, but by the Archbishop in the sacred lake of the Garreg Mach Monastery. Yet Anton tried to separate himself as much as possible from his youngest sister. Hubert’s father said that was inevitable. He looked at Hubert with an irritated expression when asked why, as though just hearing the question was wasting precious time.

“Because she bears His Majesty’s Crest,” was the clipped answer, “and Prince Antonius does not.”

Hubert remembered so when the following month, he arrived to escort Anton to tea and found him slumped in one of the Empress’ plush chairs, moaning with his head in his hands. Several of her ladies-in-waiting were clustered around him, bearing towels, smelling salts, and buckets of ice, while the Empress fanned her son’s face worriedly.

“There he is,” she snapped when she saw Hubert. “About time, boy! Go and fetch your father! Tell him to send for a doctor immediately!”

“No, no, Mother, I’m fine,” came Anton’s weak protest. “There’s no point in dragging Gotfrid here, let alone the doctor. Just let me rest a few minutes—”

“Nonsense! Anton, you nearly collapsed!” To Hubert again she ordered, “Tell Lord Vestra that Prince Antonius is suffering from the family affliction. He’ll know this is a serious matter.”

Hubert bit his lip. “My father isn’t here, Your Majesty. The Council of Ministers is in session all afternoon. I’ll get the doctor, but…” He approached cautiously, trying to catch a glimpse of Anton’s face. “What kind of pain is it, my lord? You seemed fine this morning.”

“It’s all over me.” Anton clenched his fingers in his hair, as though it may dislodge from his neck if he didn't hold tight enough. “A throbbing pain, like there’s poison in my blood. This morning I didn’t—it came on so suddenly now, I don’t—” He cut himself off with another loud moan. “I just want to rest, please, Mother.”

The Empress protested, “I’d feel better if we had Gotfrid examine you.“

“If Gotfrid is out, Hubert can still help me. He can cancel my appointments for the day. I’m certain if I could lie down, I’d feel better.” He reached towards the glass of water offered by a maid, his hand trembling—a little too dramatically. It took all of Hubert’s concentration not to frown. “I’ll rest and by dinner, you’ll see I’ll be fine. Though I feel terrible to neglect my duties to the Empire…”

The Empress clucked, rubbing her son’s shoulder. “My dear, you _are_ the Empire, and your health comes before all else.” She nodded to Hubert. “Do as he says.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hubert looked at Anton again, still slumped over, and chose his words carefully. “I’ll tell Lady Patricia you won't be coming to recite for her, my lord.”

One eye glared at him from between Anton’s fingers.

“Shame,” he said. “I hate to disappoint her.”

* * *

The apartments of the Arundel family were guarded by wooden doors with their coat of arms: a shield with a swallow in flight, bearing a sprig of horehound in its beak. Hubert had often traced its shape in his father’s heraldry books, for being added much later than the others, its ink was still dark and distinct. Apparently Lord Arundel too was so fond of the design that he spared no expense to have it carved at the size of an actual shield on his doors. The horehound even had its delicate flowers painted white.

Pushing them open, Hubert found himself facing another precious work of art: Patricia von Arundel.

She was not the youngest of the Emperor’s consorts, but she was well-aware that she was still one of most beautiful. She dressed modestly, refused drink, and attended chapel services more often than the Empress. Men averted their eyes when she went out at court, lest they be caught and punished for staring. When she walked, she moved with the serene grace of a water bird wading through a stream. When she spoke, her west-country lilt was as lulling as a song.

As he explained the situation, Hubert wished he really were invisible; Lady Patricia's eyes were, as the poems constantly mailed to her said, sharp as arrows and just as piercing. They fixed on him, unblinking, as he did Anton's duty of begging her pardon.

"Suffering from 'the family affliction,'" she repeated, her delicate brows arching. "For Anton's sake, I surely hope not. But if such pains strike him again next month, I'll call on him myself and spare him the trouble. It's important that he not fall behind in his studies, as he's wont to do. Ionius is not diligent enough with him."

Hubert silently doubted Anton would dislike nothing more.

"But now, what to do with you, El," she continued with a sigh. "Your tutor isn't due to fetch you for another hour."

From underneath the tea table's satin tablecloth came a plaintive, "Couldn't I go play with Isengard, Mother? And Kristina?"

"Your sisters are busy with their own lessons."

"What about Clement?"

"My love, you’ll see them all after supper, as always. But today is not a day to be idle." Lady Patricia extended her leg beneath the table, chuckling when she produced a tickled squeak. "Idle days make mischievous little girls."

A rustle, a ripple of cloth, and Lady Edelgard rolled out from beneath the table, her brown hair mussed in knots and her collar twisted and creased.

"No they don't!" she huffed. "I'm not doing any mischief!"

Lady Patricia bit her lip, clearly trying not to smile. "I see. My mistake, El. Now come here—where are your ribbons? By the Saints, I don't know how you lose so many…”

Hubert bowed, intending to leave the Arundel women to themselves. But he took his time in leaving, somehow spellbound by the scene of Lady Patricia smoothing her daughter's hair between her hands, tying it up with purple silk as Lady Edelgard listed all the trouble she'd fastidiously avoided of late. Once her collar was straightened, Edelgard leaned up and kissed her mother's cheek.

Hubert's gut twisted with an unfamiliar pang.

Their light-hearted argument resumed, but he didn't care how Edelgard would spend her afternoon; Anton's excuses wouldn't spare Hubert from his own work. He turned and hurried to the door.

"Why can't he take me? Hubert knows where the library is!"

By instinct, he turned at the sound of his name.

“Master Vestra is not our servant, El,” Lady Patricia said firmly. “You know the rule: if you’re not with me or your uncle, you have to be with one of our servants. It’s dangerous—”

“It’s the _library!”_

“It’s the rule.” Lady Patricia motioned in Hubert’s direction. “If Lord Vestra were here instead, perhaps.”

Hubert couldn’t explain it, but a flare of anger rose in him. He was pledged to the Crown Prince of Adrestia, but he wasn’t good enough to escort a little girl? The elaborate door of House Arundel mocked him, the swallow laughing as it flew.

Without thinking, he called out, “When my father isn’t here, my lady, I’m in his place. It’s my honor to take Lady Edelgard to the library.”

Lady Patricia was taken aback. She scratched at her wrist, glancing between him and Edelgard, looking as though she were unused to being challenged by someone beneath her and was trying to decide if she should let it stand. But Edelgard tugged at her sleeve and begged, “Please please _please,_ Mother!” and she sighed.

“Go with him, then, El,” she relented. To Hubert, she regained a stronger tone and ordered, “Through the main halls only. They have to have guards. Have a page sent back to me with word that she’s arrived. Don’t let her run too far ahead.”

Hubert bowed, his pride still smarting. “Yes, my lady.”

“El, I mean it: don’t run—”

“I won’t!” Edelgard exclaimed, already sprinting past Hubert to the door. Lady Patricia leveled him with one last look. No longer shocked or skeptical, this one seemed to mirthlessly say, _Good luck._

* * *

The moment they were out of sight, they started breaking rules.

“Lady Edelgard, _wait,”_ Hubert hissed, his shoes skidding on the polished floor as he finally snagged her wrist, bringing them both to a wobbly stop at the end of the wing. “You can’t run the whole way there!”

“Yes I can,” she retorted. “It’s not my fault that you’re too slow!”

“Not so slow that I couldn’t catch you,” Hubert argued, waving her wrist to prove his point. Edelgard frowned, trying to pull free, but she was caught fast. “Look, I meant you _can_ run the whole way, but you don’t _have_ to. There’s a faster way to the library.”

It worked: she stop wriggling, her curiosity snared. “There is?”

Hubert nodded. “I’ll show you.” The image of Lady Patricia’s sharp eyes came back to him, her warning about using the main halls. “But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

It was as good as offering candy. Edelgard’s face lit up with a smile and the fight went out of her at once. She trotted eagerly along as he led them to the nearest entrance, hidden in the wooden paneling that lined the walls around them. With a light push, the door caved inward to reveal a dark passageway.

As Edelgard gaped, Hubert curled his hand into a fist and concentrated, the spell weaving through his head like an old song. _**Heat,**_ it sang, _**feed me heat heat heat air light.**_ When he opened his fingers, a little purple flame flickered in his palm, bathing the brick walls with a violet gleam.

“Stay close, my lady,” Hubert said sternly as they stepped inside, the door falling shut behind them.

Edelgard huffed. “I will. I’m not a baby,” she griped. “You don’t have to hold my hand.”

Hubert made to protest, but then realized that his grip had loosened enough that her wrist had slipped through—indeed, he was holding her hand. He let go, ignoring Edelgard’s smirk, and started off without another word.

But Edelgard had plenty more to say. As they walked, she pelted him with questions.

“What is this place? Where does it go?"

"A servants' passage. They go all through the palace."

"How come I've never been in one before?”

Hubert tried not to laugh. "Because you're not a servant."

Edelgard's lip stuck out as she pouted, affronted. "But that's not fair!"

"That's how it works. You get to walk on the grand staircase instead," he tried to reassure her.

"You don't?"

"Well, I do. Other servants don't."

"Then that's not fair either!"

Hubert tried to find a counter, but soon gave up. At this rate, they'd never stop arguing in circles.

"You're right, my lady," he sighed. "It's not fair."

A few turns later, they were met by a group of scullery maids hauling cast iron pots back to the kitchens. They dipped their heads at Hubert as they passed but didn't notice Edelgard behind him, too concentrated on their heavy loads. Edelgard stared openly as they stomped around the corner, their faces red with effort.

"Who were they?"

"Viola, Sofey, and Stanza. They work in the kitchens."

"Are they your friends?"

Again, it was hard not to laugh. "Of course not, my lady."

"But you know their names!"

"I know everyone's name. The Minister of the Imperial Household is supposed to know everyone in the palace, and everyone in the palace is supposed to know me. I have to give them orders, not be their friend."

"You should still be nice," Edelgard fired back. "They might _want_ to be friends if you were nice. You didn't even say hello back!"

How bullheaded this girl was! Hubert was beginning to think Anton's annoyance with her was justified.

"Then next time I see them, I'll say hello. Would that make you happy?"

"Yes," she said. "You should say it to everyone, if you really know all their names. And let them walk on the grand staircase, too."

At last they reached the library exit. Edelgard was awestruck as they emerged from between the shelves, watching Hubert swivel the hidden door back into position until it blended seamlessly once more. She looked a little sad as he clenched his fist to extinguish the purple flame.

"I wish I could do that,” she said, looking down at her own hands. "I asked Mother if I could learn, but she said Uncle Volkhard wouldn't let me. He hates that kind of magic."

Now it was Hubert's turn to be curious. "Why?"

"It was before I was born. When Mother came to live with Father, Uncle was traveling to Fhirdiad and mages attacked his carriage. He fought them off, but almost died."

Hubert was startled. He'd heard many tales from his father of attacks on the imperial family, but he’d never heard this one before.

"Really? But why would mages want to kill Lord Arundel?"

Edelgard shrugged. "Uncle says they were demons, trying to take him to Hell. They told him they were going to steal his face. Ever since then, he says that the only good magic comes from faith in the Goddess, and I shouldn't trust anyone who does other kinds."

Hubert scoffed. The story seemed ridiculous; probably a bedtime terror Lord Arundel made up to keep his niece from scorching his beloved carved door with fireballs.

"But what about me, Lady Edelgard?" he challenged her. "Do you trust me?"

He watched confusion flicker over Edelgard's round face as she considered the question. For a moment he felt bad for rattling her, but he figured it was only fair—he had, after all, been forced to do some serious thinking about what determined a person's right to use a carpeted staircase.

"Yes," she said at last. "I trust you."

"Then reason magic must not be so bad," he left her with, and hurried away so that he could keep the last word.

* * *

It was just an experiment. The next time he saw the scullery maids, he said hello. All three of them stumbled in place, as though stunned by the fact that Hubert could speak at all. They managed to mumble hellos in return before going on their way once more.

The time after that, they stopped and curtseyed, expecting another order to follow. Hubert didn’t give one. Feeling embarrassed under their full attention, he walked away before they could ask what he wanted from them.

The time after that, they returned the greeting and shyly, happily, he saw Stanza smile.

* * *

If Hubert had hoped that one library trip would finish his business with Lady Edelgard, it was all in vain. The more time that passed, he began to wonder if he misremembered something about the encounter: he could only recall being instigated by her at every turn, but she behaved as though he’d taken her on some grand adventure and was eagerly awaiting the next.

“Hubert! There you are!” The call would always make him jump. Hubert was used to everyone’s eyes slipping past him, but when Edelgard entered rooms she looked in the corners, stood on her toes to peer at the back of crowds. Once during services for St. Seiros’ Day, she swiveled around in her pew and caught his eye near the very back of the cathedral. Lord Arundel swatted her hand down, horrified, when he caught his niece waving merrily as the bishop droned on about the virtues of martyrdom.

The change was jarring, but not unpleasant. Sure, she was a spirited girl, bossier than an ox driver and twice as stubborn as the ox. Hubert was certain the attentions of her older sisters and the consorts would spoil her rotten if her principled mother and uncle didn’t lean so hard in the other direction. But she was unafraid of anything. If someone caught her talking to Hubert, she never ran away.

 _There you are!_ He started to listen for it when he rounded corners or stepped from out behind doors. Going unseen made him efficient, but being found made him oddly happy.

He tried to repay her for it somehow, largely by keeping a wide berth between her and Anton when he was at his most disagreeable. But as always, the siblings had too much in common. They both liked to make trouble.

* * *

Before each summer brought scorching heat and monsoon rains to Enbarr, the Empress, the consorts, and all of their children were packed up and ferried northward to enjoy the milder weather. The summer palace sat in the rolling green foothills of Merceus County, where the family awoke to birdsong instead of drilling soldiers. The women would do their needlework in the sprawling gardens while the children played under the watchful eyes of their nurses.

And while the others were at leisure, Anton went out hunting—which meant Hubert had to hunt with him.

The first few years were the worst. Hubert was no match for the older boys’ stamina. When they shot smaller birds or rabbits, it was tiring but simple enough to dismount, retrieve the kill from the dogs, and wring its neck. But when they were after a hart, he had to keep up when the rest rushed off, whooping as their mounts thundered through the woods, dodging branches, rocks, and mud until the beast finally bled out. He almost wept with relief when Sir Stephen, the huntsmaster, sounded the horn to retire for the day.

Luckily, time was on Hubert’s side. Each year his legs grew longer, his aim sharper. Sir Stephen often complimented how skilled he was at moving quietly. On the days that it was too hot to venture out, the huntsmaster was kind enough to spar with Hubert behind the stables while Anton napped in the shade. By his eleventh birthday, Hubert no longer dreaded the Empress’ orders to start the summer packing, and sometimes even looked forward to the long days spent in the cool blanket of the woods.

What he didn’t look forward to was all the wrangling that was necessary to keep Anton’s life together each time they left Enbarr’s walls. Letters in need of replies, decisions about the management of Hresvelg County, notes on the meetings of the Council of Ministers; it all fell to the wayside in favor of the hunt, and Hubert had no means of tying up every loose end himself. More letters would follow with the House Vestra seal, letters Hubert cringed to open. His father’s hand was as heavy on the page as it was pounding on his podium: _This problem is your duty to solve._

Hubert knew Anton well by now. He knew he loved to be praised and hated to be shamed. So midway into the summer, he began bringing Anton’s work to him only when he was with his family. House Hresvelg did the rest.

“Saints and angels!” Lord Fabian whistled when he saw Hubert arrive at breakfast with a stack of letters thick enough to rival a brick. “Looks like you won’t be leaving your room this week, Anton. Should we have bread and water sent up until you’re released on parole?”

“That’s nothing,” Lady Kristina scoffed. “Have you seen the piles Gotfrid carries around? His clerks have better arms than stonecutters.”

“Have you been looking a lot at the Ministry clerks’ arms?” Lady Margrite teased. Her sister’s face bloomed pink. Lord Ernst snickered, looking up from his card game with Lord Symon.

“Oh shut up, Greta,” Kristina huffed, lifting her teacup to her lips.

“While you’re buried in boring stuff, could I take one of your horses this week?” Fabian prodded Anton with his elbow, narrowly missing the letter pile—Hubert scrambled to save it before it all toppled into the porridge dish. “My Admiral needs re-shod.”

“Then have him re-shod,” Anton snapped, snatching the letters back and throwing them down on the other side of the table. “You can’t take my horses like girls swap combs. If I’m too busy to hunt this week, then so are my horses.”

From further down the table came a haughty, “But you have so many days! It’s not _that_ many letters.”

Anton’s face darkened as he looked up at Edelgard.

“How many counties are _you_ in charge of, El?” he challenged. “Your dollhouses don’t count.”

Edelgard pursed her lips, but hopped down from her chair and walked over to pick up the topmost envelope, idly rubbing her thumb against the wax seal.

“Kristina’s right. Lord Vestra carries more all the time.” She glanced across the table with a smile. “Hubert carries more too. And it’s not like hunting is very hard.”

A wicked gleam came into Anton’s eye.

“Really?” he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “You think you could keep up on a hunt? You think you could make a kill?”

Edelgard lifted her chin, looking Anton in the eye.

“I could,” she said with conviction.

“El, don’t be silly,” Lady Isengard piped up, a warning in her voice. Hubert felt a cool wash of relief; out of all of them, Edelgard tended to listen to her closest sister more often. “You’re too little for that. It’s hours and hours of riding.”

“Clement started hunting when he was younger than me,” Edelgard argued. “Why can’t I go?”

“Because your mother would never let you,” Symon laughed.

Edelgard began to speak, but Anton cut over her: “We don’t know that. In fact, why don’t we ask Lady Patricia herself?” He nodded to Hubert. “Go fetch her.”

That cool relief became something colder as Hubert carried out the task. By the time he bowed and announced Lady Patricia’s entrance into the dining room, his hands felt almost numb.

“Nonsense. She’s far too young,” Lady Patricia repeated once the request was made. “She would only be a burden, Anton.”

“But she says she wants to learn, don’t you, El?” Anton didn’t wait for Edelgard to respond. The gleam in his eye was bright; the dog had picked up a scent, the prey within reach. “They say children in Faerghus ride before they can walk. Girls too.” He flicked the letters in his hand, the _flack-flack-flack_ of paper against paper sounding like a horse running at a clip. “I’ve heard their royal family likes to hunt wolves. Better for El to start with foxes and ducks before you send her off someday.”

Lady Patricia’s jaw clenched. Hubert wondered if her other half-children realized how rattled she was. He sorely regretted not calling for the Empress or another consort to come with her, to at least balance the scales.

“Still,” she said, through gritted teeth. “It wouldn’t be safe. Not this year.”

Anton laughed. “My dear lady, don’t you think I’ll keep my sister safe?”

Behind her back, Hubert saw Lady Patricia’s hands flex once, twice, pulling at her skirt.

“Then it’s settled,” Anton said, crossing his arms with a triumphant smile. “As soon as I’ve finished my duties, we’ll go hunting.”

* * *

As if the Goddess had grown sick of waiting for the Verdant Rain Moon to arrive, it poured all week long. Anton’s hunting party assembled on a damp, foggy morning, their boots fast caked to the ankles with mud. Hubert’s heart sank when Sir Stephen finally arrived with Edelgard at his heels. She wore a cloak and ill-fitting boy’s riding trousers, likely outgrown by one of her brothers. Next to the older boys, she looked like a porcelain doll lost in the wrong toy chest. Sir Stephen’s thick beard drooped in a frown as he lifted her to the front of his own saddle; in these conditions, extra weight was the last thing any horse needed. Edelgard herself didn’t seem as confident as usual. She nodded quietly as Sir Stephen instructed her where to grip the saddle, her shoulders hunched against the chill.

Anton looked as smug as anything.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, turning his horse towards the woods. The rest of them followed.

It was miserable. The dogs were restless, struggling to follow a scent. Their party had to move achingly slowly to keep the horses from slipping. The fog only thickened as they traveled deeper into the trees, soaking them all with a bone-chilling damp. Hubert had to keep pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes. But he wasn’t faring as badly as Anton’s friends, who’d never put up with so much discomfort before. He could hear their muttered swears increase in volume the longer the hunt stretched on. Yet Anton forged ahead.

It felt more like days had passed than hours when a shriek pierced through the gloom.

“Whoa, girl! Whoa!”

Hubert twisted around, looking for the source of the shouting. He soon found it: Sir Stephen’s horse had slipped. The mare was wobbling wildly as she tried to regain her footing, ears twitching back and forth with fright. While Sir Stephen did his best to counter-balance, Edelgard clutched his arm to her, trying to stay in the saddle. She shrieked again when the horse tilted forward and she tilted with it. For a horrible moment, the others could do nothing but watch the three struggle to stay upright.

Then with a snort, the horse caught herself and moved forward on steady legs once more. Sir Stephen steered her aside where the path was drier and dismounted. His boots splashed mud thickly over his front when he landed. Setting his jaw, he marched over to Anton. He looked more livid than Hubert had ever seen him.

“Your Highness, we must turn back,” he snapped. “See that? My mare’s leg could’ve snapped. I can’t continue in conditions like this, especially riding double.”

Anton shrugged. “Well, if you’re sure about it, I give you leave to take Edelgard back. Your horse should be fine if both of you walk.”

Sir Stephen’s face reddened as he ground out, “No. _You,_ my lord, are coming back with me. His Majesty appointed me huntsmaster of these woods, which puts me in charge of everyone who rides through them. I say we will all return now, before someone else falls and breaks their neck.”

Anton straightened up. His expression hardened into something angrier, something more dangerous.

“And my father appointed me Heir to the Empire,” he said, his voice sharper than a blade, “which puts me in charge of these woods, and this county, and every piece of dirt speckling your face. I say you take my sister and we go on with your blessing, before I have you whipped for disobedience.”

For a moment, Sir Stephen was too furious to speak. His clenched fists shook at his sides. Anton’s friends exchanged glances, watching it all from a cautious distance. Some even looked hopeful it might come to blows.

Hubert’s stomach twisted. _Solve it,_ he thought, _I have to solve it, how do I solve it? What would Father do? I know Anton better than I know myself: what he wants, what he doesn’t want. What does Anton want?_

Sir Stephen was about to reply again, but Hubert cut in. As loud as he could, he called out,

“I’ll take her.”

Every head swiveled his way. Anton blinked, surprised, as if he’d just remembered Hubert existed.

“I’ll take Lady Edelgard back with me,” Hubert repeated. “Sir Stephen, you can take everyone through the loop trail to the east. That way you’ll make sure they’re safe, and there’s still a chance the dogs can find something.” Hubert dipped his head to Anton. “I’ll have to leave you to escort her, my lord. Do I have your permission?”

For a moment Anton gulped soundlessly, trying and failing to find a counterargument. Hubert waited patiently. He knew there was none to be found.

Finally, Anton gave up. With a grunt, he turned his horse back to the trail, snapping back, “Fine. Take her and go.”

Sir Stephen too seemed at a loss for what to say. But after a moment he shook his head and settled for stomping back to his horse where Edelgard still waited. As he helped her down from the saddle, she met Hubert’s eyes. He couldn’t tell whether she looked grateful, wary, or just exhausted. When Sir Stephen set her behind him, Hubert felt her breath ghost against his neck as she shuffled in place, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“You didn’t ask _me_ if I wanted to go with you,” she muttered in his ear.

Hubert stiffened. He hadn’t factored in that she might protest. But Sir Stephen was mounting his horse again, and Anton’s friends were ribbing one another, the tension broken. Anton signaled to move forward. Sir Stephen didn’t look any happier to be behind him, but Hubert didn’t care. He’d done it. He’d ended a conflict and served Anton’s best interests, even if temporarily. He’d kept his pledge; his father would be proud. Edelgard had no right to make him feel guilty about that.

“Sorry, my lady,” he said, turning them back in the direction they came from, “but to be fair, no one asked _me_ if I wanted to go hunting at all. Does that make us even?”

She sniffed behind him. “I guess.” After they’d gone a few more yards, she wilted, her arms relaxing around his waist. “…I’m sorry too, Hubert. I didn’t mean to make trouble for you. I know you’re just trying to do your job.”

Hubert was struck with how surprised he was, hearing those words. He wracked his brain, but he couldn’t think of any time Anton had apologized to him before. He didn’t know how to respond to it. Should he thank her? His father always said it was gauche to accept praise, but had never given rules on how to accept a liege’s apology.

He decided to keep quiet.

As they wound through the trees, the sun finally began to clear away the fog. In an hour, the woods were beautiful again, every emerald leaf glistening with droplets. Happy to find warm sunlight, Hubert’s horse suddenly shook out his sodden mane—catching Hubert in the spray. He yelped as the cold water hit his face.

Edelgard shrieked as she ducked behind him to shield herself, but this time it was followed with a laugh. Hubert twisted his head to frown at her, but he couldn’t hold it for long. Her laugh was too catching, too delightful to resist.

“Sorry, sorry!” she said, still giggling, but this time Hubert knew the right response was to shake his head and spray her too.

* * *

They’d gone another hour further when Edelgard’s arms suddenly tightened around him again.

“I see something,” she whispered. “Up ahead, in that clearing.”

Hubert saw nothing, but he slowed the horse all the same, steering them behind the shelter of a thicker tree. He thought of Anton’s spear lashed to the saddle, but it was too long for him to wield with any ease. If the animal charged, he had only a dagger at hand. He studied the tree before them, calculating the thickness of its branches. One of them was low and wide enough that it could be reached if you stood in the saddle.

“Wait here, my lady,” he instructed as he dismounted and tied up the horse. “Listen carefully. If I yell back, start climbing as high as you can, alright? Don’t come down until I come back to get you.”

Edelgard’s face was white with fear as she looked down at him. “W-what if it’s a wolf?”

“I don't think so. Wolves hunt at night.” He tried to sound reassuring, smoothing his voice like his father did whenever a consort came to him fretting over one thing or another. "And even if it is, it can't reach you in a tree. You'll be listening for me, yes?"

Edelgard did not seem calmed by his promises. But she nodded, still pale, and vowed, "Yes. I'll listen."

Carefully, Hubert made his way towards the clearing ahead. He tried to slow his breathing as he approached the gap in the trees, his hand tight around the dagger handle. Finally, he saw it too: a spot of light brown amidst the green.

When he returned to Edelgard, she looked at him nervously and then at the tree, but he shook his head and held out his arms to help her dismount. Once he set her down, he rifled through the saddlebags until he found a spare crossbow. It was old and much heavier than the one Sir Stephen loaned him for practice, but it would be easier than the spear. He hefted it against his shoulder, hoping that to Edelgard he looked at ease wiedling it.

"No wolf, my lady," he said. "Come and see."

It was a fawn, young enough that its coat was still spotted with white, sitting with its legs curled beneath it. Edelgard copied Hubert as he crouched down and began moving slowly forward, taking a position behind a fallen log.

“Do we really have to kill it?” she asked, watching him draw the string and notch the bolt.

“Do you see its hind leg?” The hock was matted with old blood. “Probably a poacher’s trap. It can’t walk well, I bet, which means it can’t graze. If the herd left it behind, it’ll starve on its own.” He rested the bow against the log to hold some of the weight, the stock atop his shoulder. “This death will be much quicker, and kinder.”

Edelgard was quiet. When he turned to look at her, she was tugging at the cuffs of her gloves, eyes fixed on the crossbow.

“You don’t have to watch, my lady,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “No,” she said, voice growing stronger. “I said I could keep up. I should do it myself.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She tugged at her gloves again, this time with more resolve. “Show me how.”

It was difficult to fit them both around the bow, but Hubert managed to squeeze behind her, his chest to her back, and maneuver her arms into position. He coached her until she was taking deep, even breaths. When he felt she was calm enough, he gently squeezed her shoulder.

She pulled the trigger. The bolt flew.

The leaves rustled as the fawn’s head swayed, then fell.

Hubert waited a moment before he got up to approach it. Up close, he could see he’d been right: the fawn was more skin than fat, its ribs poking beneath the thin hide. There’d be no use trying to save any meat. He bent down and quickly slit the throat with his dagger. Blood pooled over the forest floor. When he was sure it was dead, he turned around and found Edelgard there. He knelt and held out the dagger to her, as he’d been taught.

“The hunter that lands the shot has the right to make the killing cut, my lady,” he said. “This is yours.”

Edelgard frowned. “But it’s already dead.”

“Yes.” Hubert shifted, feeling the cold mud soak through the knees of his trousers. “That’s how we’re supposed to do it for the Emperor’s family. When the hart’s at bay—cornered—it might try to fight back. If the huntsmaster didn’t make sure it was dead, you could be hurt. A fallen deer can still kick.”

Edelgard frowned harder, but she took the dagger from him. It looked laughably large in her tiny hands. Hubert stood up as she walked over to the fawn. For a moment, an unearthly quiet blanketed the clearing as they stood there, her watching the fawn, him watching her.

Then she bent down and wiped the bloodied dagger on the fawn’s coat, and nothing more.

“I’m cold, Hubert,” she said. “Let’s go back.”

The sun was covered again by the time they reached the edge of the forest. They didn’t have to wait long for Anton’s party to catch up. Judging by the mud coating their horses to the flanks and the two scrawny grouses that hung from Sir Stephen’s saddle, they hadn’t fared much better. Anton steered his horse to ride next to Hubert’s, smirking at the two of them.

“How was the hunt, El?” he drawled, but to no answer. Edelgard was fast asleep, leaning against Hubert’s back.

“I’ll take her back to her mother, my lord, when we reach the summer palace,” Hubert assured him.

“Oh, whatever. Don’t take too long.” Anton rolled his eyes and muttered, _“Such a brat,”_ before he kicked his horse to rejoin his friends.

The temperature fell as the fog rolled back in, but Edelgard curled against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, and Hubert felt lucky to be warm.

* * *

That was the last summer he spent in Merceus County. The next spring, he went to his father’s office for his morning inspection and was instead given a list of trunks to be packed.

“His Highness has been accepted to the Garreg Mach Officers Academy.”

Hubert gaped. “When did he take the exam?”

“The Archbishop made a special exception on the Emperor’s behalf.”

Hubert looked down at the packing list. It specified thick bedding and the requirements for winter uniforms. Mountain seasons, he’d heard, were far more temperamental than Enbarr’s southern weather. His heart sank at the idea of following Anton through wind and sleet for three whole years.

“When are we leaving?”

His father snorted. “Perhaps if you were older, it’d be worth the expense to send you with him. But the Academy doesn’t take students younger than fifteen. No, Hubert, you’ll be more useful here.”

From his pocket, he produced a ring of golden keys. Hubert stared as they glinted in his father’s thin hands.

“While Prince Antonius is away, you’re going to serve the Emperor,” he said, “as my apprentice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ehmazing @ twitter](http://twitter.com/ehmazing), please send me your every headcanon about Patricia von Arundel who consumes my thoughts every waking moment okAY TIME FOR FOOTNOTES
> 
>  **ETA:** A kind commenter pointed out that recently, FE Heroes gave Ferdinand's dad the same medieval German name I gave Hubert's dad, so Hubert's dad has been renamed since this was first published! Could…could Fire Emblem just name all the dads please……so I don't have to worry about confusing dad names………
> 
> \- Chapter title style is lovingly stolen from [Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell trilogy!](https://www.goodreads.com/series/75450-thomas-cromwell-trilogy) That woman really knows how to title a chapter
> 
> \- The fashion and ~style~ inspo of this fic is drawn from periods much later than the 12th century 3H is ""supposed"" to be """set""" """"""in"""""". Throughout early modern Europe, black was a color usually only affordable by higher nobility (bc of the expense of the dye). [You can find more info about black in early European fashion here!](http://refashioningrenaissance.eu/when-black-became-the-colour-of-fashion/) Black was also the color worn by government officials and scholars throughout many Chinese dynasties, and these two fun history things combined are why I've assigned Ministers a black dress code.
> 
> \- re: Anton faking a hereditary illness, I can only IMAGINE the levels of genetic diseases that would crop up in societies that value Crests. The Emperor taking multiple partners and having a hearty crop of children would be an honestly decent way to try mitigating inbreeding, but logic says that even if your kids wouldn't get your Crest, they'd certainly be at risk to get something else. 
> 
> \- Recitation is one of the world's oldest learning methods. Passed on from [Classical orators](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recitationes) into early modern Europe, it was a method by which both academic and religious instruction were conducted.
> 
> \- The House Arundel heraldry comes from the word's two possible origins: Old English 'Harhunedell,' which means 'valley of horehound,' and Old French 'arondelle' for 'swallow'
> 
> \- I'm a parody of myself and I watched…so many medieval crossbow videos……for just one scene……[please enjoy one](https://youtu.be/2IdfmaC_t-Q)
> 
> \- It's so weird to me that a Garreg Mach education is only supposed to last 1 year?? For timeline purposes it's been lengthened to 3 here, which is a typical length of an anime high school (obviously bc that's how long it is in rl Japan). So Anton enters Garreg Mach at age 21 and will graduate at age 24. But that's for next time…


	2. Princeps Civitatis. 1172-1175

To serve His Imperial Majesty Ionius IX, you needed to wield a knife.

“If you’ve done your job well, you should never need to use it.” His father displayed his own: pearl-handled, thin enough to sit flat beneath his clothes and remain hidden to even a trained eye. “But if all other measures fail—guards, spies, servants, soldiers—you are the Emperor’s last defense.”

The knife felt heavy at first, strapped beneath Hubert’s sleeve, but in time it felt like part of him, like nothing at all. In the mornings he would squeeze his wrist after fastening his cuffs to remind himself it was still there.

There were two routines for the Emperor. The first went much like Anton’s: Hubert and his father went together to his bedchamber; the morning schedule was announced; the maids stoked the fire and set the room to rights; all were dismissed when business was finished, the day begun.

What set apart father from son was how much privacy the Emperor lacked. It wasn’t unusual to find several other ministers waiting for them at the bedchamber door, the guards ever-stalwart against early admittance to everyone but the Imperial Household. Hubert thought they must be the highest-paid soldiers in the Empire, to resist Duke Aegir’s bribes. Sometimes there’d be a priest mixed in, an ambassador, even merchants if they had enough coin to get through the main gates. None of them liked waiting for Hubert’s father to produce the single key to His Majesty’s rooms, but wait they did.

The Emperor wasn’t alone while he slept, either. While his father lined up the morning guests in the anteroom, it was Hubert’s job to wake whichever consort was curled on the other side of the great bed and inform her it was time to go. He always hoped it was Lady Keterlyn, who slept lightly and typically covered. Lady Gertrud had to be shaken like a drunkard. Lady Patricia was bold enough to yawn and take her time.

“Ionius,” she’d groan, reaching behind her to prod the Emperor. “The circus is here.”

“Yes, yes,” the Emperor mumbled, his face still buried in the pillow. “I’ll be in the ring in a minute.” He shifted to open one grey eye. “Have you brought my shoes and the whip for the dancing bear, Hubert?”

“Just the shoes, Your Majesty.”

“Hm. I suppose the bear will have to wait.”

Another difference: Hubert found that the longer he served him, the more he liked the Emperor.

His Majesty was not a complicated man. His pleasures were simple: good food, lively music, and witty conversation with beautiful women—none of these to gluttonous excess, not with Gotfrid von Vestra watching over his shoulder. He completed his work in a timely fashion. He relied on and trusted the advice of his ministers. He dutifully hid his yawns during cathedral services. In short, he never caused any problems, never made unattainable demands. He was jovial. He was good-hearted.

He was terribly unlucky.

The second routine for the Emperor started much earlier in the day than the first, sometimes even the night before. It began with Hubert’s father being told in a whisper—by a page appointed to carry this message alone—that the Emperor’s illness had returned.

The doctors had no name for it; to their knowledge, none existed. Dozens had studied His Majesty over the years and still there was no explanation, consensus, or cure. Tinctures didn’t help his headaches, massages didn’t ease his pains. Whole days of sleep didn’t grant him rest. The only thing agreed upon was that sometimes, the Emperor got into bed and simply couldn’t get up again. The only solution was to wait.

Adrestia couldn’t wait. That was the crux of the second routine: the step where the Emperor would carefully pry the signet ring from his finger and grant it to the Minister of the Imperial Household, who received it with a bow.

“I shall return this evening with the day’s reports, Your Majesty. My son will remain to wait on you here.”

“Thank you, Gotfrid,” the Emperor sighed, propped up on mounds of pillows. “I trust you’ll handle everything perfectly, or at least better than I would.” His father would leave then with one final bow, tucking the ring into his coat pocket.

For most of the second routine, the Emperor and Hubert were left alone.

Sometimes His Majesty wanted to talk: about frivolous things, popular books, operas Hubert should see when he was old enough, any interesting gossip from the court. Sometimes he wanted to rest in silence, looking out the window into the palace courtyard for hours. There was a little chair and table that Hubert dragged to the corner of the room and used for a desk to catch up on work. He listened for the cathedral bells to keep track of when they both should eat. They would exist in this little bubble for a few days until His Majesty was able to get up again.

But then came the day that the Emperor asked to breach it.

“Could you send for Lady Patricia?” the Emperor whispered, his eyes half-lidded, his face looking frightfully white against his sheets. “I know Gotfrid doesn’t like to alarm the ladies when I take ill, but I’m too selfish. I want company. Patricia knows I can’t stand when people fuss; she’s always so good to me. I miss her terribly. So could you?”

Hubert ran through the rules. His father hadn’t outlawed visitors outright, though he’d specified not to admit the meddling Empress or any of the other Imperial Ministers. His Majesty was in a vulnerable state, not fit to withstand someone else’s demands. But Lady Patricia wasn’t a politician; she was the established favorite. The Emperor hadn’t demanded her presence—he’d begged for it.

“If Your Majesty wishes, I’ll get her at once,” Hubert acquiesced. He hoped he wasn’t about to make a grave mistake. But the way the Emperor relaxed upon hearing that, just for a moment, he was committed to go through with it anyway.

* * *

Hubert burst through the Arundel doors, panting, “Pardon me, Lady Patricia—”

Lady Patricia wasn’t there. Instead, seated in her parlor was a dark-haired man, square jaw propped on his hand as he reviewed a large account book that took up most of the tea table. When he looked up at Hubert, his ruby earrings flashed with the movement. His bronze doublet was cut expertly in the latest fashion and of a fine silk that could’ve cost more than his jewels. Even standing at a distance, Hubert could smell the perfume.

“Gotfrid’s boy,” Volkhard von Arundel said by way of greeting, licking his finger to turn a page. “Well, where’s the fire?”

Hubert bowed, his chest burning as he caught his breath. “Lord Arundel, I’m sorry to intrude. I’ve been sent to fetch Lady Patricia. His Majesty has asked to see her as soon as possible.”

“Ah,” Lord Arundel said, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ll have to get El.” He nodded to one of the side doors adjoining the parlor. “She’s with her Faersh tutor now. She’ll be only too happy to have the lesson cut short, I expect.”

Hubert shook his head. “His Majesty requested Lady Patricia by name, my lord. If you could tell me where I might find her?”

“You won’t.” Lord Arundel was annoyed now. He fixed Hubert with a stern look, stroking his clean-cut beard with one hand. “She’s out. When she’s out, we send Edelgard. Hasn’t your father told you this, boy?”

Hubert felt flush with irritation and prayed it didn’t show on his face. “My father told me that when His Majesty is in low spirits, I should see that his every need is met. Your niece didn’t merit a special condition.”

Infuriatingly, Lord Arundel seemed only amused by this declaration. He snorted, turning back to his books.

“Then by all means, fetch my sister if you’d like. She’s on a social call with Lady Gertrud, probably to one of her thousands of Aegir cousins. Only a decent two hours’ walk from the palace, if you hurry.” He gestured at the side door again with a sweep of his hand. “Or you can take Edelgard and save all of us the hassle. His Majesty included.”

Hubert stood his ground as long as he could, but it wasn’t very long. He walked to the side door rigid with anger from head to toe, Arundel’s too-smug smile burning a hole in the back of his head. When he knocked, a bespectacled man with ruddy hair answered, a slate clutched in his other hand.

“Sir,” Hubert said, dipping his head, all-too-aware of Arundel listening in, “I’m Hubert von Vestra of the Imperial Household, here with a request from His Majesty—”

“I’m coming!” The tutor had to move quickly before Edelgard bulldozed past him. “Sorry, Professor Meynhard, I’ll do the rest of the poem next week!”

“Lady Edelgard,” Meynhard said in a warning tone. Edelgard sighed, pivoting in place so she could be handed a large book and sheaf of paper. “That will be the next forty verses, if you please, since we have to end early today.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. When the door closed, she made a face at it.

“I’ll be reviewing those verses when you’ve finished, El,” Lord Arundel said as they passed him. “And you, boy, take her through the guarded halls.”

“Of course, my lord,” Hubert managed to say without too much venom. When he went to open the great doors, he was struck with a terrible impulse.

 _ **Air,**_ the spell called, _**breath held together tight tighter tighter…**_

When Hubert swept out his arms, a cutting wind blew the doors open, the swallow flapping at the hinges. Lord Arundel swore loudly, trying to catch his billowing papers. When Hubert turned to bow and take his leave, Arundel’s face was pale. He met Hubert’s glance only briefly, and grunted offhand in response to Edelgard’s parting, “Goodbye, Uncle!” Hubert was almost certain that as they left the apartments, the man began to fervently pray St. Macuil’s Creed.

At his side, Edelgard ducked her face against her book to muffle a snort.

* * *

Once they reached the Emperor’s apartments, it was clear that everyone but Hubert was already well-versed in this dance. After the guards ushered them in, Edelgard toed off her shoes and nudged them to the side with a stockinged foot. Then she tiptoed into the Emperor’s cavernous bedchamber, setting her book carefully on the carpet before leaning forward to speak right against the bed curtains.

“Father,” she called softly, “guess who.”

“Give me a hint. Are you tall or short?”

“Well I’m not tall, but I’m still growing, so I could be.”

“I see, I see. Blue eyes or brown?”

“Neither.”

“Neither! Very mysterious… Alright, meat pies or sweet pies?”

“Sweet pies,” Edelgard shot back at once, grinning wide.

“Then you must be…my El!”

At that, Edelgard took hold of the curtains and parted them with a showy yank, revealing herself to the smiling Emperor, still propped on his pillows.

“Got it in one,” he said, smiling as she kissed his prone hand. “What have you brought for me today?”

_“Lugh Lámfada and the Smithing Stone.”_

“Old King Loog again? Shouldn’t that professor be teaching you to speak _modern_ Faersh?”

Edelgard pouted. “But all the modern verses are the same! It’s always about Little Coira falling into sin until she remembers to make an offering to the Goddess, or Little Ivan not remembering to ‘obey thy mother and father’ and losing his prized hen for it or something. You’d think no one in Faerghus wants to write anything interesting!”

Hubert stared as the Emperor, wan as he was, actually laughed.

“Alright, you’ve got a point there,” he said. “I’d rather have the tales of rebellious Loog and his knights over Little Ivan and his prized hen.”

Hubert retreated to his usual corner, taking up the quill he’d flung aside before he left. He tried to make sure none of the beads in his abacus clicked too loudly as Edelgard began to read. Her Faersh accent was commendable—Hubert’s tutor usually flinched hearing his—and though her pace faltered over the more complicated passages, it was clear she had a firm grasp on the language already. _She might be Ambassador someday,_ Hubert thought, pausing in a calculation as King Loog lamented over the death of Kyphon. _Might be less flashy with the salary than her uncle._

He hadn’t noticed that at some point, his mind abandoned figures entirely and focused on the story. Kyphon had dictated his sword be broken upon his death, but as the knights tended the funeral pyre, Loog was visited by a vision of the Goddess. She told him the sword must be buried on holy grounds. When Kyphon’s son reached his majority, She said, the sword would awaken once more and call to him.

“Do you think that really happened?”

Hubert looked down and found Edelgard sitting cross-legged on the carpet, leaning against a leg of the table. The bed curtains were closed once more; a soft, steady snore came from behind them. Hubert scrambled to stand.

“My lady, forgive me—take my seat, please.”

Edelgard eyed the hard-backed chair with distaste. “Thanks, but I like the floor.”

Hubert wanted to groan. He set the book and inkwell down on the carpet, folded his legs beneath him, and went about the business of trying to make himself comfortable against the other table leg.

“…Hubert, that means you can keep the chair.”

“You outrank me, Lady Edelgard,” he explained gruffly, rearranging his work space on the carpet. “My head can’t be higher than yours.”

“Your head is _always_ higher than mine. Are you supposed to walk with a stoop?”

“When the bishop enters the cathedral, all of the worshippers have to stand. And when she sits in her chair, they have to sit. It’s the same rule.”

Edelgard rolled her eyes. “I was kidding, Hubert. I know. You can still have the chair, if you want it. I won’t tell.”

He knew she wouldn’t. Still, he shook his head, returning to the additions. He suspected Edelgard rolled her eyes at him again.

“But King Loog,” she pressed. “Do you think he really saw the Goddess?”

Hubert shrugged. “Lots of people say they’ve seen the Goddess. Whether Loog did or not, we know he didn’t break the Sword of Moralta in the end. The story is just trying to explain why he changed his mind.”

“But he shouldn’t have!” Edelgard insisted. She stabbed a finger on the page, as if she could call forth the Faerghan king to answer for his actions. “Kyphon told him not to! If he wasn’t ordered by the Goddess, why wouldn’t he listen to his friend?”

“Kings are still people, my lady. People have minds of their own.”

“So if you begged Anton to break your…your…what’s your favorite thing in the world, Hubert?”

Hubert floundered over the question. He ran through all of his personal possessions, and they all seemed so trivial when held to the standard of a knight’s sword. He couldn’t think of a single thing that was worth so much that he’d stake a dying wish on it, but Edelgard was awaiting an answer. He looked at what was in front of him.

“My…inkwell.”

“Inkwell? You’re not—oh, fine. If you begged Anton to smash your inkwell after you died, and he vowed to you that he’d do it, swore an oath on the soil and everything, and then he did the very opposite of what he promised, you wouldn’t be angry?”

“No,” Hubert said. “I’d be dead.”

Edelgard let her head droop back until it thunked against the table leg.

“Forget it,” she huffed. “I have forty verses to do.”

She flipped back in her book to where she’d marked a prior page, small doodles already crowded in the margins. Hubert turned back to his own assignment, resolved to concentrate. But he could hear too-clearly the sound of Edelgard’s dress rustling as she folded and refolded her legs. He was very familiar with the feeling of being watched. He sighed.

“Yes, Lady Edelgard?”

“What are you doing?”

“Some bookkeeping for my father.”

“Can I see?”

“I don’t think you’d find wheat taxes very exciting.”

“I’d rather look at numbers than read another word of Faersh,” she argued. “And you’re stuck. You keep rewriting the same row.”

Hubert bit his tongue. She wasn’t wrong.

“We can trade, if you’d like.” Edelgard sat up straight again, eager. “My work for yours?”

Hubert scoffed, “Faersh poetry isn’t part of running the Imperial Household.”

“But isn’t helping the heir of House Arundel?” She smiled with a knowing grin.

Hubert looked down at the mess of numbers, his father’s narrow script making his eyes swim the longer he tried to parse it. The Emperor was still asleep, and would hopefully remain so for a while longer.

“I’ll do ten of your verses,” Hubert bartered, sliding his book to her reluctantly, “but that’s all.”

“Thank you!” she chirped, hefting it onto her lap. Truly, Hubert had never seen a girl look so delighted to be handed a list of additions. “And I promise to take care of your _favorite_ inkwell.”

He ignored the jab. The pages of _Lugh Lámfada and the Smithing Stone_ were warm where they’d lain under Edelgard’s hands. He decided to start at the beginning of the scene, to re-familiarize himself with the cadence.

> _Is the wind on the shield of Aegis?  
> _ _Or is the voice of past times in my hall?  
> _ _Sing on, sweet voice! For thou art pleasant.  
>  Thou carriest away my night with joy._

For the rest of the afternoon, all that could be heard in the bedchamber were the Emperor’s snores and the scratches of their pens.

It was the nicest afternoon he could recall in a long while.

* * *

It happened the third time he was sent to summon Lady Patricia and returned with Edelgard in her stead. After the Emperor fell asleep to _The Thrice-Slain Knight_ and they traded books as usual, Hubert was explaining to her why tariffs on salt had risen so high when Edelgard interrupted.

“Would you like to be friends?”

She said it so quickly that the words ran together, as if she couldn’t hold them back any longer. Hubert stared. A second ticked by, then another, and she didn’t break and say she was kidding. In fact, she actually seemed quite earnest.

“Uh, if you say so, my lady,” he said haltingly. But Edelgard shook her head.

“No, that's not how it works! You can’t be someone's friend because they told you so. You have to want to." With her jaw set, chin angled up proudly, she never looked more like her father. "Do you _want_ to be friends, Hubert?"

Hubert knew if he asked for his advice, his father would’ve said to answer no. A lecture to follow, most likely: expounding why there is a reason the world is stratified, moulded in this shape, and must remain that way. Making clear that no matter how you love them, a master will always remain a master and a servant remain a servant. The Minister of the Imperial Household is not the Emperor’s friend—had not been in seven generations, and never will be.

He also knew, were he to tell Edelgard this, she would say, _So? What does that matter? Anton will be Emperor, not me._

He knew what he should say, and he knew what he wanted. The two sides clashed, jaws locking, until there emerged a victor.

“…Yes. I want to.”

For being the one to pose the question, Edelgard became oddly bashful once he answered. She looked down, hands fidgeting in her lap.

“Good. Me too,” she finally replied. “Should we, um, pledge on something?”

“Pledge?” Hubert couldn’t keep the humor out of his voice. “Do you ask all your friends to do that? Carve their names on Cethleann’s Glass with a diamond ring, like crusaders?”

Being teased brought Edelgard’s confidence back. “Maybe I will,” she declared, “if I can get a diamond and a mirror. Or—oh!” She seized _The Thrice-Slain Knight_ from his lap and quickly flipped to the endpaper at the back. “Here! We can sign!”

Though it felt sacrilegious to scratch away the book’s delicate gilt binding, Hubert took the quill he was offered and carefully penned his initials beneath Edelgard’s. They watched the ink dry, sealing their names to the page. And while he knew that the ritual was a silly thing, Hubert couldn’t help but feel something bright spark in his chest, something like pride.

* * *

There was something freeing about taking one step up in the world. A ring of golden keys transformed Hubert from Anton’s shadow to ‘Master Vestra.’ He wasn’t master of much, but he was a bigger piece of the game now. He had a clearer sense of the shape of the board.

What began as an experiment with the kitchen staff grew slowly into a strategy. Hubert called every servant by their name, made a point of doing so. He observed them carefully, noting what they were good at and what needed improvement. He made small tweaks where he could: suggesting a stablehand be paid to train with a farrier; advocating a laundry girl with a deft hand could make a better lady’s maid if given some polish. There was a satisfaction, he found, about knowing people. If you knew them well, you knew how best to move them, and you could play a better game.

The imperial family always demanded to see his father first. But on occasion, a servant would seek Hubert out for assistance, and nervously ask that Lord Vestra not be made aware of it.

Hubert honored that, when he could. He took promises seriously.

“I have a theory,” said the Emperor, on one of the days he was too drained for even Edelgard’s company. At the sound of his scratchy voice, Hubert hurried at once to fill a water goblet. “But if I tell you, you must promise not to spread it. I don’t want some fame-hungry philosopher to take credit for my grand bedside sermons.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Good. Do you know what the clergy say my illness is, Hubert? That it’s a curse from the Goddess. The first to write of it was my great-great grandmother, Artemisia IV. Her son had it, then three of his children, then my uncle and father too. ‘Heavy blood,’ my father called it.” The Emperor patted his hand against his chest, mimicking a heartbeat. “He thought it was caused by our inherited sins. With each generation, we stray further from the Goddess’ embrace, so she tries to tighten her grip.”

Hubert carefully maneuvered the goblet so that the Emperor could sip from it without raising his head.

“If that were true, Your Majesty, wouldn’t repentance cure it?”

The Emperor grinned, a drop of water caught in his beard.

“That’s what my father thought, too. Evidently it didn’t work, no matter how much gold he gave the Church. Do you want to hear my theory now?”

Hubert nodded.

“My theory is that it’s our Crest that’s too heavy for us. Artemisia was the last known Major bearer, and everyone I just named got the Minor, like me.” The Emperor looked to the ceiling, absently licking his lips. “Some mighty power meant for the likes of Wilhelm the Great—what am I supposed to do with such a thing? There’s no continent left to conquer, no evil kings to fight. We weren’t meant to carry it; it weighs us down. One day, maybe, there’ll be a Hresvelg who’s just born flat, just squashed from the first. Imagine—poof! The end of the line. St. Seiros can finally take her glorious burden back again.”

The Emperor turned his head back to face Hubert, his grey eyes tired.

“Promise you’ll never tell my son that,” he sighed.

Hubert promised.

* * *

Shortly before he turned fourteen, Hubert had to be fitted for a new set of clothes. All of his shirts and doublets had started to gap at the wrist and strain between his shoulders. In the mornings, he had to rub the aches out of his calves before trying to get his old breeches to stretch to his knees. The tailor winked at his father, joking, “I’ll bet a bag of gold that he’ll tower over you, m’lord. You’ll be back here within the year.”

The three years hadn’t carried much weight until that moment, when they could be measured in yards of cloth. Now the time before Anton returned could be measured too, and the number was ever-shrinking.

Hubert was too tall to sit under the table in the Emperor’s room anymore, though Edelgard could still fit. The Emperor was still expected to leave for Garreg Mach the following week, though that day he was feeling poorly enough that they found him asleep before his daughter had even arrived. Hubert’s concentration kept slipping every time he remembered this may be the last time he’d ever sit cross-legged and cramped on this floor.

He almost jumped when Edelgard snapped her book shut and said, “Hubert, would you stop staring sadly at nothing and tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just thinking.”

“Your thinking face looks miserable.”

“Really? I’ll get a new one for you, then.”

Edelgard fixed him with a look and waited.

“I’m thinking,” he finally said, forcing his tone to stay light, “that you’ll be in trouble when I can’t do half your assignments anymore.”

Edelgard snorted. “You should be more worried that you’ll miss a whole page of expenses without me to double-check.”

“That only happened _once.”_

“Because I reminded you every time after,” she countered smugly. But then she said with much more gentleness, “It’s not like you’re leaving the country when he comes back, Hubert. We’ll still live in the same place.”

 _When he comes back, we may as well live across the sea,_ Hubert thought. But he pretended to consider her words and nodded.

“You’re right, my lady,” he said. “Of course we will.”

If she sensed his doubt, she didn’t show it.

* * *

The guards, the footmen, the attendants, and the imperial family had to bow three times as the traveling party stepped out of the carriages: first for the Emperor, second for the Empress, third for the Crown Prince. Anton shielded his eyes as he looked up at the grand facade of the palace, a smile growing over his face.

“Enbarr,” he mused. “How long it’s been!”

After kissing his ring, Lady Kristina and Lord Fabian were granted embraces from their eldest brother. Fabian clapped a hand against Anton’s shoulder, crowing, “Are you wearing plate armor under that doublet? I never thought three years of prayer could make someone wider than a house!”

Anton laughed. “Yes, years of prayer. We made petitions to St. Indech for a quick death as we were driven through the mountains like the Archbishop’s dogs.”

“May He spare you again,” Kristina chided. “Don’t let Mother overhear.”

The rest of the family were paraded through. The consorts curtseyed and congratulated their half-son on his graduation. The children demanded to know if there really were beasts hiding in the Oghma Mountains. Lady Patricia stood behind Edelgard with her hands resting on her daughter’s shoulders, second-to-last in front of Lady Ilse and the twins. Hubert wondered if others noticed how their heads dipped a degree lower than the rest.

“Your Highness,” Lady Patricia said, “we’re very happy to have you home again. I can already sense that Garreg Mach has helped you grow into an even better man.”

Anton’s grin was cocksure. “I daresay it has. But let me see—this can’t possibly be little El? You’ve become such a pretty young lady!”

“Thank you,” Edelgard said. Hubert could see her tug at the cuffs of her gloves, one by one, behind her back. Anton held out his hand, but she didn’t leave her mother’s side.

“Come on,” Anton coaxed. “I won’t bite.”

Edelgard glanced up at Lady Patricia, who wordlessly inclined her head towards Anton. Only then did Edelgard step forward to delicately kiss her brother’s ring. When she straightened up, Anton laid his hand on top of her head, holding her in place so that he could bend to whisper something in her ear. Hubert couldn’t see her expression. Then Anton smoothly released her and beckoned to Lady Ilse, who shepherded her boys forward as Lady Patricia and Edelgard moved away.

Hubert tried to keep track of them in the crowd, but he felt the familiar weight of his father’s hand pushing at his back. A heavy pit grew in his stomach.

He did as he was taught. He kept his face neutral. He waited for his father to walk first. He bowed before Anton with one arm pressed over his heart.

“Your Highness, it is a joy to see you return to Enbarr,” his father said. “On behalf of House Vestra, I am honored to serve you once more.”

“I too, my lord.” Hubert’s voice sounded much more composed than he felt.

Anton held out his hand to them the same way he’d done to everyone else. Just as he’d been taught, Hubert let his father pay homage first.

The signet ring still tasted sour.

“I’m only too glad to be in safe hands again,” Anton said, wiping the back of his hand against his traveling cloak. “Hubert, see to my trunks.”

“Of course, my lord.” Hubert bowed again. “Welcome back.”

As he went to the carriages, Hubert could feel eyes watching him go. But whether it was Anton or Edelgard or even his father, he didn’t turn to look back. He’d been trained better than that.

* * *

Everyone said that the Officers Academy did Anton a world of good. He’d left Enbarr a mercurial young man and returned a level-headed prince. As soon as the dust settled, he pushed aside the indulgences of his youth and set himself to work. He sat in on Council meetings, read his briefs comprehensively, arranged private lunches with the Prime Minister and a careful selection of courtiers. For the first time, Hubert felt that his morning reports were actually listened to in full.

Anton had changed, but Hubert’s workload had not. In fact, with his liege’s renewed interest in governing, it was twice as large as before. He’d thought he was serving the Emperor those three years, but now it was apparent just how little of the weight he’d carried. His father’s shadow loomed larger than ever.

Family visits were another indulgence Anton surrendered. Weeks flew quickly between the brief encounters Hubert had with Edelgard. He had to make do with a chance crossing in the hall, a glance from a window, an errant letter delivered to the Arundel door. On the rare occasions he wasn’t exhausted enough to fall asleep quickly, he’d try to summon the memory of the soft cadence of her voice reading aloud in the Emperor’s room. It felt like a song whose melody he was forgetting note by note. The loss of it made him angry with himself.

He was often angry with himself—for being too tired, too slow, for lacking the shining confidence everyone else had upon seeing Anton improve. Anger was easier to stomach than loneliness.

The Academy had also changed Anton’s taste in friends. He ignored invitations from the self-centered noble sons who used to circle the imperial family like flies and in their place installed a new group of people from his academy days. Though all were of noble birth, to call them eccentrics was a vast understatement. They all had strict preferences, from the rooms offered to meals they ate to times they allowed servants in. The household was seldom given notice of their arrival and even more rarely informed of their departure; certain favorites could stick around for weeks at a time and vanish overnight. Hubert knew the servants complained heartily about it when they thought he and his father weren’t listening, and he didn’t blame them.

One day Hubert came to wake Anton and found him already up and conversing with a scarlet-haired woman he’d never seen before. She must not have passed through any of the guarded entrances, or Hubert would already be well aware of her arrival. Instead he grit his teeth and bowed to Anton as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“Monica von Ochs,” Anton said by way of introduction, lazily gesturing at her with the teacup the footman presented him. “She’ll need a room and maid for the next month or so.”

“I’ll have it prepared at once, my lord.”

The woman stared at him openly, cocking her head to the side with the jerky movements of a bird.

“Who’s this one?” she asked.

“Hubert von Vestra. The Minister of the Household’s son,” Anton answered. “Let him alone. He’s sworn to me, and quite useful.”

“Aw,” Monica whined. She studied Hubert from the window seat, swinging her legs back and forth. Something about the way she smiled at him sent a chill down his spine. It was hardly a smile, actually—more a baring of teeth. “Surely you can get another? There’s scarecrows to be found all over Fódlan!” Without waiting for anyone else, she cackled at her own joke. “What’s he do?”

“Manages the servants, my treasury, handles all the correspondence I don’t want to—so most—and a legion of other tasks,” Anton rattled off. “Much quieter and more tolerable than the old Marquis chained to my father. And he carries a knife on him, beneath his sleeve, so I presume there’s been investment in his martial training.”

“A knife?” Monica hopped to her feet. “Let’s see it!”

Hubert was so confused he almost felt dizzy. ‘Quite useful’ was the highest praise he’d ever heard from Anton’s lips. But the knife—had he noticed the shape of it somehow? Had Hubert’s father told him, so he’d know he was protected?

At Anton’s nod, Hubert unbuttoned the cuff of his coat, then his doublet, and pushed up his shirt sleeve until the knife and its sheath were revealed in full. In a flash, Monica crossed the room and grabbed his arm, yanking him closer to examine it. Her grip was stronger than expected, her fingers shockingly cold. Hubert fought the instinct to jerk back.

“A toy sword for a toy soldier!” Monica laughed again. “You’ll have your head cut off before you can get that thing into your hand!”

“If I may, my lady?” There was immeasurable relief when Monica released him. Once he righted his sleeves, he squeezed his right forearm with his left hand, triggering the mechanism in the sheath. The knife sprang down, the hilt easily caught in his right hand.

Monica stared. And then her face stretched into that frightening grin again.

“Alright, scarecrow,” she said. “Now let’s see you use it.”

Without warning, she punched him.

The hit landed high in his gut, just under his ribcage, and hurt like hell. But though Hubert gasped with a rattling breath, he managed to dodge the next one, raising his arms in defense. When Monica came at him again, he caught her wrist in his left hand, using her own momentum to heave her to the ground so he could shove his arm right against her throat, the knife edge against the underside of her jaw.

He paused there, waiting for her yield. Through the burning pain in his ribs, a cold thread of fear was twisting inside him—he’d just thrown a prince’s guest! But far from seething with anger, Monica von Ochs looked at him with an almost crazed excitement in her eyes. From across the room, he heard Anton snarl.

“I _told you_ to let him alone.”

“You said yourself you only guessed at his training. Why not find out what he can do?” Without waiting for him to offer a hand, Monica twisted easily out of Hubert’s hold and got to her feet. “Got more knives up your sleeves?”

Hubert shook his head.

“Magic, then?”

“I’ve been taught in the reason forms, my lady, and a few spells of faith.”

Monica made a gagging sound. “So you’re only useful for lighting hearths and healing stubbed toes.”

Hubert tightened his grip on the knife. “I know some of the…more dangerous spells. For theoretical study. But this isn’t the proper place to—”

He didn’t finish his protest. Just as quickly as she’d struck him, Monica snaked out one cold hand and seized his throat, pinning him against the wall with a force like a charging animal.

“There’s no proper place to die, scarecrow,” she cooed. She raised him high enough that Hubert’s legs dangled above the floor. Spots danced in his vision. He scratched at the arm holding him up, but her grip was ironclad. “Come on! You were happy to show off before.”

 _“Monica,”_ Anton barked. There was a harsh clang of china on wood as he slammed his cup down. “I gave you an order!”

“Relax, Your Highness, it’s only business,” she drawled back. “I’m checking the return on your investment.”

Hubert tried to think of what he’d learned, so many hours of study and practice and demonstrating for his father until his hands shook when he cast. But his ears were ringing, his pulse twitching against Monica’s freezing hand. He thought of flame—Monica’s sleeve began to smolder under his palms, but nothing caught. He thought of ice, but could only concentrate on her tightening fingers. Anton yelled again but Hubert couldn’t make out the words, and no matter what was said, Monica didn’t listen. Nobody ever listened.

He squeezed his eyes shut, or maybe he couldn’t keep them open. He could remember with clarity: his spell book open on the Emperor’s carpet, Edelgard leaning over the page and scrunching her nose as she read.

_“What does it mean, ‘the shape of the spell must mould to the shape of the caster?’”_

_“It means that to control magic, you have to build the spell in the way the spell wants to be built.”_

_“What?”_

_“It’s like…like the spell is trying to talk to you. It knows what it wants to do. And so you tell it what you want to do, and if you both want the same thing, you can work together.”_

The memory ended there, but Edelgard’s voice did not: _What do you want, Hubert?_

_Not to die._

He reached out blindly until his hand crashed against Monica’s face. With little finesse, he grabbed her hair, and with all his might he thought,

**_Let me go. Let me go let me go you will pay for this you will pay with your blood and your breath and your body. All is mine to take, take away from you._ **

Hubert couldn’t really tell when he hit the ground. But he knew that he could breathe again, and he did so in great, gulping gasps.

Slowly, the world bled back in, colors turning into shapes turning into familiar things. The curtained bed. The window. The tea table and chairs. The chambermaids huddled by the fireplace, faces white. Anton, frowning, leaning over him.

Monica von Ochs, crouched on all fours, retching up something black and vile. A dark haze clinging around her red hair like some strange little cloud.

“Let this be a lesson,” Anton snarled at her. At her? “This is what happens when you don’t obey. Count yourself lucky you found yourself in his line of fire and not mine.” He turned to the chambermaids. “You, get him out. Send someone to see to this mess.” He strode out of the room, cursing foully under his breath.

The maids sprung up and hurried over to help Hubert to his feet.

“It’s alright,” he coughed, “I can do it myself.”

“Come on, Master Vestra,” they shushed him. “His Highness’ orders.”

They managed to balance him between them, one arm braced over each of their shoulders. As they hobbled out, Hubert looked back. The cloud had dissipated, leaving Monica hunched over, wiping black spittle from her chin.

Hubert didn’t sleep that night. No ballad in Faersh would help.

* * *

The next morning his hands shook behind his back as he told his father he wanted a new magic tutor. Someone with more expertise in combat and the rarer, more powerful spells.

“It’d make me more useful,” he said. “Especially since His Highness has fought so many more experienced enemies without me.”

His father tapped his quill idly on his podium. “You would still have to keep up your other lessons, of course, but I’m not opposed.” He paused. “I think Prince Antonius’ return has benefited you. It’s taught you to take initiative.”

“Yes,” agreed Hubert, his ribs still smarting. “It has.”

* * *

A year after his return, his twenty-fifth birthday approaching, Anton asked Hubert to arrange a meeting between him and his father. He wanted to discuss marriage.

“A wonderful subject, Your Highness.” Across the Council table, Hubert’s father had spread a series of charts: maps of Adrestia’s counties, family trees, expense reports for vendors of silk and gold and gems. On easels around the room stood at least a dozen portraits of eligible ladies from the highest-ranked families. “Ensuring the success of your line is the highest honor of my office. Though there are many parties to please, your satisfaction is always foremost. Do keep in mind, though, that any woman may make a good consort, but only an exemplary one will make a great empress.

“To begin, I want to point out the most obvious candidates.” His father nodded to a painting of a rosy-cheeked girl, her russet hair cascading over her shoulders in corkscrew curls. “Your mother has long favored Beata von Aegir. House Aegir remains close to House Hresvelg, so it would be a well-received match. Another favorite is Hanne von—”

“Gotfrid, I didn’t come here to hear about the Empress’ choices in women,” Anton interrupted. “I’ve already made my selection. I only need you to approve of it.”

Hubert’s father, having years of practice, made no visible reaction of surprise to this. Hubert, on the other hand, was thankful he was standing behind Anton and could raise his eyebrows.

“Truly, my lord?” His father folded his hands atop the table. “Then by all means, tell me her name.”

“Sitri.”

“Family?”

“None that I know of. She’s a nun living at the Garreg Mach Monastery.”

For the first time in his life, Hubert saw his father physically recoil.

“Y-Your Highness,” he stuttered, “you cannot be—the reasons that—if there’s been an _indiscretion,_ it can be taken care of, but marriage is out of the question. Even a consort is out of the question.”

Anton leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “Why? I thought my satisfaction was ‘always foremost.’”

Real anger began to take shape on his father’s face. “Because she has no noble title. Because she is a woman under holy orders. Because it would be a scandal, a shame, a stain upon your family that would blot the name von Hresvelg permanently. What reason could you possibly have to challenge that?”

Anton stood. Idly, he began to walk around the table, examining the portraits as though he were taking a tour through a gallery.

“My reason is that while I lived at Garreg Mach, the librarian found that there was a girl in the nunnery who had a Crest. A rare Crest, not seen in centuries, unknown in any bloodline noble or otherwise. So I made it my mission to find her, and I did. She told me indeed, she possesses a Major Crest that dates back to the time of the Saints. She was kept under lock and key by the Archbishop because of it, as if she were a living relic.

“My reason is simple, Gotfrid: there is no chance of me passing on the Crest of Seiros. Think: my father sired eleven children and only one got lucky. Our centuries of hoarding consorts and breeding children have made the bloodline weak, thinning it out. But I could give Adrestia something better.” He delicately traced the spiral of Lady Beata’s curls with his finger. “I could give them the Crest of Flames.”

Hubert watched as his father worked his jaw, his fingers clenched tight together.

“The Crest of Flames is only a legend,” he said slowly. “A myth.”

“Then you admit the Goddess herself is a myth?” Anton grinned. “Take leave, Gotfrid, and go to Garreg Mach. I’ll inform Tomas—my librarian—that you’re coming. You can meet the girl yourself. When you return, give me your decision, and we’ll move forward from there.”

Hubert’s father was quiet for a long moment. The shining, painted eyes of the beautiful women watched them, waiting for his next move.

When the meeting was over, Hubert left with orders to arrange the running of the palace for the next two weeks.

* * *

Hubert didn’t know much about Crests, aside from the obvious fact that people wanted them. House Vestra was a noble house, but their paltry lands were sold generations ago, their small treasury frugally maintained. The highest honor his family had ever achieved was securing its ministerial post. They had long settled for their ordinary blood and been content not to aim any higher.

The dukes, though, with their storied names and sprawling counties, they bartered for Crests like gamblers at the races—not that anyone would ever say so. After all, Adrestia was hallowed as the eldest nation, the most civilized. They weren’t like the Alliance, with its labyrinthine laws of inheritance, or Faerghus, where it was rumored Crestless children could still be left out in the snow. In Adrestia, Crests were a luxury, not a necessity.

But Hubert had studied their family trees; he knew his countrymen were loath to surrender their luxuries. He knew that he’d have to take up his father’s role in overseeing those betting tables and marriage games someday. He had the list of ranks and ancient sigils memorized from his earliest childhood.

He had never heard of the Crest of Flames.

The night his father left, Hubert finished his meeting with the stewards to review the schedule for the following day. But instead of retiring to his room afterward, he lit a candle and crept to the library.

It was always locked in the evenings, more out of routine than need for real security. Still, Hubert’s pulse thundered as he hurried to open the door while the hall was still empty, every clink of his keys as loud as a cymbal to his ears. He breathed easier once he’d locked the door behind him and faced the dark room, solemn shelves lined from floor to ceiling. His father was away, he reminded himself. He’d never find out.

Most of the material on Crests owned by the imperial family expounded mainly on—of course—the Crest of Seiros. Hubert ran his finger along the spines of the leather-bound volumes, skipping over the Saints and Elites he was already familiar with. There was a series on how to breed a Major Crest, a hearty dozen hagiographies, and two whole rows of battle tactics. Hubert pulled a book now and then to flip through the contents, skimming for mentions of rare Crests, and found no hints he was looking in the right direction.

He bit his cheek in frustration. Perhaps he could write to one of his old tutors, or see if there was a local priest clueless enough to answer an innocuous letter on the subject? He even wondered if maybe he should risk asking Anton directly. After all, if Anton got his way, the Crest of Flames would belong to Hubert’s new mistress. He’d have to know _something_ about her.

He was reaching for another book when a light appeared near the back wall.

Hubert pinched his flame out and flattened himself into the window niche beside the shelf. He was thankful he hadn’t changed out of his day clothes; in black, he’d be harder to spot in the dark. He slowed his breathing, listening for movement. There were quiet footsteps, unhurried, but not slow enough to mean the intruder was suspicious of another presence. Soft shoes—they were still being cautious.

As the footsteps neared his hiding spot, he curled his fingers loosely, a spell ready at the tip of his tongue. He would not be toyed with by Monica von Ochs again, if it came to that.

But as he predicted, the intruder thought they were alone. They looked straight ahead as they strolled down the center of the room, candle in hand, passing him entirely. When he felt they were far enough, Hubert carefully peered around the edge of the shelf to assess the challenge.

The spell he readied was forgotten at once when he caught sight of a girl’s ruffled dressing gown and a loose braid of brown hair, tied with a violet ribbon.

Hubert hated the idea, but there was only one way to prevent her from waking the whole palace. Silently, he slipped from the niche, praying she wouldn’t turn before he was close enough. When he was directly behind her, he whispered, “Lady Edelgard, it’s only me,” and grabbed her shoulder to spin her around, clamping his hand over her mouth the moment she inhaled.

Her yelp was muffled in his palm.

He waited a moment for her shock to fade, then released her and backed away quickly, bowing as low as he could without knocking his head on the floor.

“Please forgive me, my lady,” he pleaded. “I knew if I tapped you first, you’d scream.”

 _“Really,”_ Edelgard hissed, furious. “I’d scream if someone appeared from the blue and grabbed me? What a guess!” After a moment, she shook her head and sighed, gesturing at him with the candle. “Alright, don’t grovel. You’re lucky I didn’t burn you. What are you doing here?”

He settled on a half-lie: “Reviewing your family records. An assignment from my father.”

Edelgard raised an eyebrow. “In the middle of the night?”

“I…didn’t want him to know I’d forgotten to do it earlier.” He clasped his hands behind his back, meeting Edelgard’s skeptical look with one of his own. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else. Especially since I locked the door behind me.”

“I didn’t use the door.” Edelgard straightened up, holding her candle aloft with a haughty air. “I came in through the servants’ passage. You showed me how, remember?”

The reality of his mistake—a mistake left to ferment for five years—dawned on him.

“Oh, don’t look so scared,” Edelgard said. “I’ve never been caught. Even if I were, I’d say I wandered around and figured them out myself.” She took a step toward him. “I’d never put you in danger, Hubert. You’re still my friend.”

Up close, the orange gleam of the flame illuminated her face. He could find no dishonesty in it. Hubert nodded in response, and when she smiled he couldn’t describe how deeply it comforted him.

“I came here to draw,” she explained as they settled at the reading table, producing a notebook from under her arm. “Mother’s such a funny sleeper, she always wakes up if I light a candle. But I can’t draw in the dark, of course, so I started sneaking out.” She turned to a blank page fast enough that the finished ones flicked by in a blur; he caught a knight on horseback, a page of hands, a half-smudged woman’s face.

“Isn’t it easier to draw by daylight?”

Edelgard shrugged, already bent over the page, charcoal stick scratching. “If you want to draw something right in front of you. And all my tutor ever puts in front of me are bowls of fruit, dried flowers, and landscapes, landscapes, landscapes. At night, no one’s going to demand I get the shadow right on a lily petal. I can draw whatever I like.”

They lapsed into silence for a while, Hubert occupied with his books and Edelgard with her sketch. By the time he went through his pile and again found no mention of the Crest of Flames, Hubert gave in and started watching Edelgard instead. The side of her hand was stained black from the charcoal, and a fainter smudge had wound up on the side of her nose.

“Lady Edelgard,” he decided to venture, “have you ever used your Crest?”

Her hand slowed. She frowned at the page.

“Why are you asking?”

Hubert was taken aback by the suspicion in her voice. “I’m just curious.”

“Anton didn’t put you up to it?”

“No, my lady,” he insisted. “Has he told someone else to?”

Edelgard hunched around her notebook, ducking her head down. “His new friends keep pestering me about it. One of them spent a whole dinner asking me all kinds of strange questions about my Crest, and I had no idea how to answer half of them. Afterward I heard him telling Anton that he thought I was ‘disappointing, weaker than expected.’” She huffed, scattering charcoal dust across the table. “As if I could be an expert! No one will teach me to use it!”

“So you _have_ used it?” Hubert pressed. Edelgard scratched at her cheek, putting another black smudge there.

“Twice,” she mumbled. “I was very little. I didn’t want to go to services on St. Cichol’s Day, so my nurse tried to pick me up to carry me. I pushed her away—straight across the room. She toppled the wardrobe. She went to my mother and resigned that very day.

“The second time, my brothers were playing war and I demanded to join them. Clement said I wasn’t tough enough, so I tried to prove myself.” She grimaced. “We were lucky his arm didn’t snap in half. After that, Uncle Volkhard said I had to control my temper. If I hurt someone else, he’d send me away to a convent to learn better discipline.”

Hubert thought of all his father’s lectures, all the threats he’d memorized by heart.

“That’s—that must have scared you. I’m sorry, my lady,” he said honestly.

Edelgard looked up, surprised. “A little,” she admitted, “but after a while I realized Father would never let him do it. I’m his favorite. Mother can’t even convince him to let me go to Arundel County.”

Silence fell again. Hubert decided to go replace his books on their shelves, but Edelgard stopped sketching. When he returned to the table, he found her watching him, her notebook closed and pushed to the side.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked.

Hubert hesitated. “I don’t want my arm broken, if you don’t mind.”

Luckily Edelgard caught the note of humor, for she only rolled her eyes. She set her forearm on the table, palm up, and nodded to his empty chair. Once he sat down again, she closed her eyes, concentrating. The fingers of her hand curled inward as though trying to grasp something from the air.

Then, slowly, a slender beam of light bloomed from her palm, arching upward like the unsteady stalk of a new plant. It swam up into the air, slowly knotting itself into a circle, then a circle within that, then dripping into a teardrop form. By the time the Crest of Seiros was complete, Edelgard’s fingers were shaking but the shape glowed steadily, fiery red.

The first words that Hubert could think of were, “It’s very beautiful.”

“Clement said it looked like an egg,” Edelgard said drily.

“A very beautiful egg, then,” Hubert chuckled. Carefully, he raised his hand near the shape. It gave off a slight warmth. Though he couldn’t grasp it like a solid object, he felt a resistance the closer he got, almost like a repelling magnet. He turned his attention down to Edelgard’s hand. The same warmth radiated from her palm, but there was no force there. He tried lowering his hand all the way down and found it quite easy to land his fingers in the center of her palm.

When he did, Edelgard twitched, surprised—the Crest flickered out.

“S-sorry,” she said, snatching her hand back. She stood and gathered her notebook to her chest like a shield. “I told you, I’m not very good with it.”

“Well, you didn’t fling me into a shelf,” Hubert reassured her, taking up the candle to follow as she began making her way back to the servants’ passage. “I’d call it a success.”

Edelgard shot him a dark look over her shoulder.

“The next time I catch you alone in the dark, Hubert, I swear I’ll scare you so badly you’ll jump like a cat.”

He had to laugh quietly as they eased open the door, but he laughed nonetheless.

* * *

Hubert’s father returned to Enbarr on a rainy night, his traveling cloak still dripping when he entered their apartment. Hubert heaved it over the back of a wooden chair to dry near the hearth as his father sat, for once, on their lone couch, staring into the fire.

“I warned him it will be difficult,” he said at last. “The Council of Ministers have to vote on it, then the Emperor has to approve. That’s without considering if the Archbishop would ever agree to release her. That girl’s kept caged like a songbird; the price for her will be astronomically high.”

Hubert stilled. “She’s real, then? She’s got the Crest of Flames?”

“Yes. She cannot manifest it, but the librarian got his hands on some device. I could hardly believe it, but there it was.” His father scrubbed his hands over his face. “I can’t imagine the work to be done to make her a proper Empress, but this must be a sign. A miracle.”

He stood suddenly and walked quickly over to Hubert. Hubert tensed, but did not run. He looked into his father’s wild eyes as he laid his hands on Hubert’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.

“Yes, a miracle,” he repeated fervently. “House Hresvelg will bear the divine Crest of Flames. We will be servants to the Emperor and the Goddess incarnate. Adrestia will be more powerful than it was in the days of Wilhelm the Great. More powerful than any nation that has come before, or will come to be.”

His father released him, retreating back to the couch. Hubert swallowed.

“You should sleep, Father,” he tried, but his father shook his head, looking back to the fire once more.

“Go to my office,” he ordered instead. “Get letters out to Hevring, Varley, Bergliez, the rest. The Council of Ministers must be summoned as soon as possible.”

* * *

Hubert wasn’t sure how it happened or who was to blame. His father’s staff were the only people who handled the mail, and even if a letter was waylaid, Hubert had been careful to leave any details out of the ministers’ summons. Hubert himself certainly didn’t tell anyone—not even Edelgard, whom he hadn’t spoken to since their library run-in. He could tell his father was suspicious of him, which he tried to ignore. _If you paid closer attention,_ he thought bitterly, _you’d know I have no one else to tell._

But in the end, it didn’t matter how or why, for it happened regardless: the Empress discovered Anton’s plan.

Hubert was in the middle of settling the month’s accounts, which had thankfully gotten much less out-of-hand since Anton had gone to school, when a page came pounding on the door, out of breath.

“Master Vestra,” he panted, “Lady Keterlyn sent me. There’s a row in the consorts’ wing.”

Hubert set his pen down, sighing. “Lady Ilse and Lady Rosine again?”

“No, sir. The Empress and her children. She’s smashed a vase.”

Hubert practically flew to his father’s office. By the time they arrived, someone had swept up most of the vase, but a few shards remained scattered. They found the room divided: on one side, a fuming Anton and Lady Kristina, who appeared to be trying to quietly reason with him. On the other, the Empress, flanked by two ladies-in-waiting and two consorts. It was impossible to hear what the other women were saying to her, for the Empress’ hysterical wails drowned out everything else.

“Gotfrid!” Lady Keterlyn exclaimed when she saw them at the door. She left the Empress’ side, hurrying over to them. “Thank the Goddess! We’ve tried to calm Maria, but she won’t listen to reason. Patricia and I fear she may work herself into a state.“

“Insolent boy!” the Empress cried. “Horrible, horrible child!”

“Would someone shut her up?” Anton snapped, pushing his sister’s hand off his shoulder when she tried to turn him away. “Going on like this, in the imperial palace!”

“See to him,” Hubert’s father muttered as he followed Lady Keterlyn over to the Empress’ couch. Hubert hurried to Anton and Kristina, who was still trying to talk him down.

“Anton, no matter that she’s a commoner—surely you can’t be so set on someone yet,” she said. “And if you are, well, you might change your mind anyway. You’ve always had fickle taste, so you can imagine why Mother’s so upset that you’re moving so fast. She doesn’t want you to end up unhappy.”

“How could I end up unhappy?” Anton scoffed. “If I don’t like one woman, they’ll get me another. And if I don’t like that one, they’ll get me a third, fourth, fifth. Isn’t that how this household works?” He gestured to the sitting room, with its doors on all sides. “We ensure the Emperor’s never lonely and the nursery never empty. We have a whole Ministry devoted to the task.”

Kristina’s expression soured. “That doesn’t mean those women won’t be family. _Our_ family. And the first one you pick will be more than ‘one woman;’ she’ll be Empress. She’ll have a say in the country, just as Mother does.” She set her jaw, looking up at her brother. “So if you really want to marry her, I’d suggest you change your attitude. The way this is going, Mother will have Father stop the process before the Ministers even put it to vote.”

With that, she stalked away. The moment her silk skirts vanished through one of the doors, Anton rounded on Hubert.

“Is that true?” he hissed. “She can put a stop to my marriage?”

“Not with an official vote, my lord,” Hubert explained. “But if she sways your father, he can veto the Council’s ruling. The Emperor and the Council have to agree on any marriages that bring someone into the line of succession.”

“Then the Emperor should listen to his Ministers, not to _that!”_ From the across the room, the Empress wailed again, this time accompanied by Hubert’s father’s most lulling platitudes.

“You know your father better than I do, my lord.” Even as Hubert said it, he wondered if that was true anymore. “He doesn’t like conflict. If you want something that’s going to create more of it, he won’t be eager to vote your way.” He gestured to the Empress’ corner. “Try to convince Her Majesty, or at least soothe her. She’ll only be a bigger problem if you don’t.”

Anton took to this suggestion as though Hubert had offered him a bottle of vinegar to drink. But after a moment, he set his jaw and walked over, putting on a calm mask as he went. As they approached, the Empress had switched from sobbing to vicious ranting.

“A girl of no blood, no lineage! A girl he probably bedded on a lark and feels some fool’s obligation to!” she spat. “Oh, I should never have let him go to that infernal school! See what comes of it: nobles mixing below their station, walking out of the sacred house of the Goddess with less respect than when they went in! The damned Archbishop should be tried for running a school like that! My son could’ve stayed in Enbarr and kept his sanity!”

“Maria, please,” Lady Patricia begged. “I fear you’ll have a fit if you carry on like this. You’ll make yourself ill.”

“Then let me be ill! I’d rather die than see him disgrace us all!”

Hubert managed to catch Anton’s arm and stop him before they were within earshot.

“My lord,” he asked in a hush, “why haven’t you told them about the Crest of Flames?”

Anton glowered at him. “Because the more people know about it, the more people will be after it,” he snapped back. “The more time the Archbishop will have to hide it again.” He grabbed Hubert’s wrist, squeezing it tight enough to bruise. “Until I’ve gotten ahold of it, no one but the Ministers and the Emperor will know. If I find it’s spread further than that, I’ll put all their heads on pikes.” His grip tightened. “Am I clear?”

“Of course, my lord,” Hubert replied evenly. He did not rub his wrist once released, but followed Anton dutifully to the Empress’ side.

They didn’t make it there.

“Get him out of my sight!” the Empress cried when her son attempted to sit beside her. “I don’t want to hear another word!”

Lady Patricia tried again, “Be reasonable, Maria,” and Lady Keterlyn nodded in agreement.

Hubert’s father offered, “I’m here, Your Majesty. Let me resolve this.”

“No!” she howled. “Out! He can return to me when he understands the mistake he’s making!”

Anton stood. His mask of calm, Hubert noted, was still somehow intact.

“I’ll go then, Mother,” he said. “I’ll return when you understand your mistake as well.”

Her renewed wails followed them all the way down the hall.

* * *

Hubert thought, at first, that he was still dreaming. He was lying in grass, gazing at the sky, when suddenly the grass became hands that grabbed him. They shook him roughly, back and forth, hissing like the wind in his ear, _Get up. Get up now, boy._

“No,” Hubert groaned, “I don’t want to.” But the grass bore him down, formed a palm that slapped his cheek.

He opened his eyes with a jolt. He was in bed, tangled in the blanket. His father was leaning over him.

“Up,” his father demanded again. “Get your shoes and cover yourself. Don’t waste time getting any more decent.”

Hubert stumbled as he followed the instructions, throwing on his overcoat over his nightshirt and stuffing his feet into his boots. His father wasn’t in a much better state, with a faded dressing gown hanging off his shoulders and a shadow of stubble clouding his jaw. The room was still dark, grey in the early dawn.

“Go to the Empress’ bedchamber,” his father instructed. “Get the maids out and keep them quiet. Lock the door. No one is to enter until I return with Doctor von Heinkel. Have the guards make sure of it.”

Hubert grasped his right arm with a cold stab of dread; he’d long been sleeping with the knife in place.

“Is she in danger?”

“She’s dead,” his father said. “And no one in this household must find out before the Emperor.”

There were already guards at the door to the Empress’ apartments. Hubert noted, dimly, that one of them—Kraus—was shorter than him now. When had that happened? He felt so strange as they bowed to him, like a boat suddenly untied from the dock. He didn’t know where the current was taking him, couldn’t find an oar to steer. This was a morning entirely without routine.

The bed curtains were only drawn on one side when he entered. The Empress was laid on her back, blankets tucked up to her chest as though she were still sleeping. At the foot of the bed huddled two chambermaids, weeping into each other’s arms. A fire was crackling in the corner fireplace but a bucket of ashes was overturned across the floor. One of them must’ve lit the hearth as usual, Hubert realized, before the other discovered the body.

The Empress wasn’t the first corpse he’d ever seen. He’d watched hangings before, criminals executed in Lycaon’s Square. He’d seen servants succumb to the winter fevers, wrapped in feedsacks to be loaded onto the corpse-man’s cart. Once a gate guard lost a duel with another, and by the time their friends were scared enough to ask for his father’s help, she’d bled too much to be worth helping. The Empress was so pristine in comparison. Her greying hair hadn’t even slipped from her sleeping cap. Hubert took hold of the sheet and covered her face. He half expected her to open her eyes and scold him for it.

As he neared the chambermaids, he felt afraid again, but this time it wasn’t about the prospect of facing some threat in the dark. The two of them were senior maids, much older than the girls who readied Anton’s rooms. They’d likely served the Empress for years; they were wracked with genuine grief.

For a moment he froze before them, his hands still cupped around his purple fire. He’d never lost someone he was used to seeing every morning. What was he supposed to say to these women? What could be said at all?

“Gretel, Ada,” he began. They looked up, startled. Hubert figured he was not a very welcome sight, especially dressed as he was. “You have to come with me. My father has gone to fetch the doctor.”

Ada shook her head, hiccuping. “I w-won’t leave her, Master Vestra,” she sputtered. “I’ve served s-since Lord Fabian was born.”

“Me neither,” Gretel sniffed, wiping her red eyes on her apron. “She’d want someone to watch over her until a priestess can come. I can’t—I _won’t_ leave my lady.” A sob came over her again. She wobbled unsteadily on her knees, her chest heaving. Hubert just managed to catch her under the elbows before she could fall.

“You can’t serve your lady in a state like this,” he insisted, and then stopped. _You should be nice._ It echoed from deep in his memory, in a little voice he’d almost forgotten. _It’s not fair._

Two other chambermaids had helped him up once, after all.

Hubert looked down at Gretel, at her swollen face and tear-stained cheeks, and said more softly, “And she wouldn’t want you to, would she?”

Slowly, Gretel caught her breath. She shook her head.

“Come with me, please,” Hubert tried again. “You…you can wait in my apartments. When the priestess arrives, you’ll be the first to know. The guards will make sure Her Majesty isn’t disturbed until then.”

A long moment passed. Hubert was sure they would refuse again. But then Ada stood shakily, taking up Gretel’s other elbow.

“Carefully,” Hubert coached her, and together they got Gretel to her feet. Hubert braced his arm across her back so she wouldn’t sway. As he helped her to the door, he heard Ada muffle another cry as she pulled the bed curtains closed. She rejoined them in the hall, taking Gretel from him so he could see to the lock.

“Thank you, Master Vestra,” Gretel murmured in a thick voice, her head laid on Ada’s shoulder. “It’s kind of you to take us.”

Was it gauche to accept praise from those beneath you, the same as it was with those above? Nearly ten years in service, Hubert still didn’t know. He concentrated on summoning a fire to his hand again, though now the sun was closer to breaking through the horizon, bathing the hall a weak, watery blue.

“Gather your strength,” was the response he chose, watching Gretel find her balance. “We have a long way to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- To start off these footnotes, I want to say that while I'm clearly aiming to make everything as historically…passable as possible, my brain has long craved to push the 3H timeline out of 12th century Europe and into the 17th. Why? Because I think Adrestia's geographic reach, sea trade, and kind of Protestant leanings make me want to model it on the Dutch Golden Age, specifically the mid-1600s. So I'm not saying you HAVE to picture this fic taking place then, but I pinned sooo many genre paintings that inspired me while writing it that I feel I may as well share that fact!! For this chapter in particular, [this was the vibe in my head while picturing young tween Edelgard](https://pin.it/1TANdGw) (the artist is not actually Vermeer, but Jonathan Janson emulating his style, get it right pinterest gdi). 
> 
> \- Languages!!!! I love writing about fictional languages!!! I doubt I will go into my Fódlan language thoughts in this au that is CLEARLY earning its Canon Divergence badge now, but in short I essentially believe that the main Adrestian language would be Fódlan's version of Common/Continental as it was the oldest empire, we start to blend into a Faerghan language as you head north that becomes more solidly its own main language as the environmental (cold) obstacles increase, and the Leicester Alliance, being mountainous, splinters into several dialects and a mixture of both, with additional influence coming out of Almyra. I have to stop before I talk about this for 10 more years.
> 
> \- The """authentic Faersh""" spelling of King Loog as 'Lugh' comes from the name's origins in Irish myth PURELY because I think it looks better that way, lmao. 'Lugh Lámfada' was one of Lugh's epithets and roughly translates to 'Lugh Long-arm,' possibly in reference to him being a skilled sprear-thrower. 
> 
> \- The verse was adapted from “The Death of Cuthullin” from [The Poems of Ossian](https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/ossian/oss32.htm) by Scottish poet James Macpherson.
> 
> \- Faerghus’ moral literature is based on the [Child Ballads,](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Child%27s_Ballads) a collection of traditional 16th-century English and Scottish ballads. I was first introduced to these through Anaïs Mitchell’s interpretations on her album _Child Ballads,_ which of course I recommend giving a listen to! The Thrice-Slain Knight is just a rename of [The New-Slain Knight](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Child%27s_Ballads/263) from the same collection.
> 
> \- Ah, Hubert’s growing pains. My little brother was 6’2” by the time he was 16, and I’d like to thank him for being able to reference his lived experience of morning leg pains as he steadily got too long for his twin bed…
> 
> \- The palace library was inspired by the Strahov Monastery library in Prague, which I have been to and can confirm it looks [this outstanding.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tjCQY8WicjQ)
> 
> \- If you've seen as much of The Crown as I have, you may already be familiar with the constraints of [the Royal Marriages Act of 1772,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Marriages_Act_1772) which indeed required marriages to be approved by multiple prongs of government, with the idea that this would prevent anyone unsavory from coming into power. 
> 
> \- I resisted writing an entire essay here bc good fucking lard this chapter is 4k over the last, but I do want to state that I'm a firm believer that Hubert in any universe can't be a bad household manager, even if he still does a lot of wizard murder!!! Not only does the concept that he'd mistreat servants beneath him MAJORLY not jive with……everything Edelgard stands for, but much like today, [people of the Middles Ages didn't like to work under shitty bosses.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Popular_revolts_in_late-medieval_Europe) So while I don't think you'd be any less nervous going into your performance review, the idea that Hubert could successfully run a household of #?? hundred staff AND be expected to manage many personalities among the imperial family means in my mind that he'd still be understanding when you have to take some days off to care for your sick kid. Also (points to all his support w/ Bernie) he's just, a nice guy at heart, even tho he would never admit/believe it. So I will admit AND believe it!!!! ~fin~
> 
> i stg if the next chapter is longer than this…………pray for me
> 
> ehmazing @ twitter, say hello if you'd like


	3. Loyal Sons of Adrestia. 1175-1176

Death, like any other business of the imperial family, was the business of House Vestra. Like any other business, there were measures taken to make up for the expenses. The Empress’ coffin was carved limestone; her ladies-in-waiting had to surrender any gifts before they left the palace. Every servant needed a set of mourning clothes to last them three months; her gowns were cut up to make more use of the fabric. Fine beeswax candles were purchased by the hundreds for the procession to the cathedral; her furniture was draped with dust cloths, her windows shuttered, and her rooms locked to spare the price of heating them.

Ada and Gretel were paid their wages in a lump sum to cover the mourning period. They could find work in another house in Enbarr, or they could return to their families. The other consorts had their own chambermaids already.

For once, in a sea of black, Hubert matched everyone else.

After three months, when jewels and medals could be worn again, his father instructed him to take the Empress’ remaining ornaments to Lady Kristina.

“The significant pieces have already been returned to the Treasury. His Majesty refuses to sell or redistribute the rest.” His father looked at the wooden box with irritation. “At least it will pad her daughter’s dowry.”

Kristina hadn’t been forced out of the Empress’ apartments—she’d chosen to leave herself. The room she now shared with Lady Margrite was too crowded with their combined furniture. Hubert found all four of the Emperor’s daughters there, their mourning gowns making them the only matched set in the room.

“You can set it on the bed, Hubert. I don’t think it’ll fit anywhere else,” Margrite instructed him. “Kristina? Are you coming to see?”

Kristina didn’t leave her spot at the vanity. She was brushing her hair with slow strokes that might’ve seemed methodical if her grey eyes weren’t so vacant.

“I can see fine from here,” she mumbled. Her gaze stayed fixed on her own reflection. Margrite bit her lip, but didn’t argue.

“El, give him room to breathe,” Isengard scolded as Hubert opened the box, sliding open each compartment with care. Edelgard took the tiniest step backwards—only to lean forward again with a gasp when he produced another ring from a hidden panel.

“I know this one,” Margrite said as he set it down on the velvet-covered tray. She picked it up and turned it in her hand, studying the deep blue stone. “Almyran sapphire. She wore it for the blessing of the harbor ships during the Blue Sea Moon.”

Isengard carefully stroked a string of pearls, saying wistfully, “These were from my mother, for her birthday.”

Edelgard left his side to hop onto the bed, poring over the collection as her sisters exchanged tales of the Empress’ life. She seemed more interested in the construction of the box than the jewels themselves.

“I wonder if—oh!” She smiled with delight when an experimental pull revealed another hidden compartment. It was guarding a carefully-folded handkerchief; quite old, judging by the yellowed lace. When Edelgard unwrapped it, a gold bangle tumbled into her waiting palm. It opened with a clasp disguised as two eagle heads, their eyes set with rubies.

As soon as she saw it, Edelgard’s eyes went wide. She slid down from the bed and hurried to the vanity with the bangle clutched in her hands.

When Kristina reached up to start another stroke through her hair, Edelgard caught her wrist. Startled, Kristina finally seemed to regain her senses, blinking as she turned towards her youngest sister. She let Edelgard take the brush from her hand and set it on the table, then carefully fasten the bangle on her wrist.

“Look, Krista,” Edelgard said, holding her sister’s hand up to display it. “Remember this? Your mother always wore it with that beautiful yellow gown, the one she was painted in for her wedding portrait.”

Kristina studied the bangle silently. Hubert let out a relieved breath when she replied, “Yes. I remember.”

“And the story of how Father courted her?” Edelgard grinned. She produced the weathered handkerchief. “He gave it to her for a Garland Moon gift, and turned bright red when she said it looked like the eagle heads were kissing!”

Kristina didn’t laugh, but her mouth twitched at the corners. When she looked at her sister, her eyes were no longer vacant, but soft. She pulled Edelgard into an embrace, kissing her cheek.

“Here, El,” Kristina said. “You love it so much, you should have it.”

“But Krista—”

“I’m giving it to you,” Kristina insisted. She took off the bangle and fastened it to Edelgard’s wrist instead. “Use it to make someone else blush about kissing eagles someday.” She called to the other girls, “Margrite, Isengard, take what you like as well. I can’t bring it all with me.”

Isengard frowned. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“Nuvelle County. At the end of mourning, I’ll be married to the Viscount.”

A necklace slipped out of Margrite’s limp hands and fell back into the box with a dull clatter.

“Kristina, what are you talking about?” she demanded. “Married? You’re not even betrothed!”

“As soon as the messenger docks with Father’s seal, I will be.” Kristina gathered her hair behind her head and began pinning it back up. “It isn’t news. Gotfrid pitched the match two years ago, but my mother couldn’t be convinced. Now she doesn’t have to be. The Council of Ministers voted this morning and Father consented.” She fixed a pin, staring vacantly again at her reflection. “So did I.”

Margrite gaped at her sister for a moment before she whirled around, looking directly at Hubert.

“Is that all true?” she asked.

Hubert shifted his weight and swallowed.

“Yes, my lady,” he mumbled.

Margrite stood up and marched over to the vanity, a trembling fury rising in her voice.

“You can’t go to Nuvelle. It’s on the other side of the Empire, Kristina, more than a week’s journey by ship. And marry the Viscount? Abelard von Nuvelle’s a widower! You’d be mother to two children before you’d even set foot in his house!” She threw Hubert another glare over her shoulder. “How could Gotfrid suggest such a poor match?”

“Oh, Goddess, Greta, don’t be stupid,” Kristina snapped. “A poor match? House Nuvelle is one of the richest families in the Empire. Their imports stock half of Enbarr’s markets. Yes, Lord Nuvelle already has children, so now I’m free of the burden of bearing him any more. I’ll be free to run the whole county too when he passes.” She stabbed another pin into her hair. “Don’t blame Gotfrid, either. He retired the idea two years ago. It was Anton who revived it.”

“Anton—but why—?”

“What does it matter why?” There was ice in Kristina’s voice. “It’s done. I leave this spring. Get used to the idea.”

As Margrite argued back, Isengard slipped off the bed and walked over to Hubert.

“You should go now,” she said quietly. “Thank you for bringing the jewels.”

He had no choice but to bow and obey.

All the while, Edelgard stood by watching the sisters fight, worrying the bracelet on her wrist—for once strangely, painfully silent.

* * *

“I’m still not convinced, Gotfrid.” Lately, Duke Aegir was paranoid about his thinning hair. He kept rubbing his hand over his scalp as he spoke, the sound of constant scratching conjuring the image of a flea-bitten dog. _Anxiety over his age,_ Hubert thought. _He’s concerned he’s not done anything memorable with his life yet._ “We’d have to amend the Imperial Charter first; it’s against the law for an emperor to marry common blood.”

“Not to mention the international embarrassment we incur if Lady Rhea won’t consent,” growled Lord Varley. _Short temper,_ Hubert noted. _He’d be humiliated to beg for the Archbishop’s permission._

“And what of the proof?” Lord Hevring insisted. “How do we know we’re not being played for fools?” _Arrogance. He doesn’t like that someone else holds all the cards_. “May I remind you that until very recently, we were all in agreement that Prince Antonius needed a strong hand from this Council to guide him. Now you want to let the horse drive the cart?”

“You’re looking too closely at the threads, gentlemen. Imagine the tapestry instead.” Hubert’s father, unfazed by their ire, spoke up. “The key to this marriage is the appearance that the Church is bequeathing Adrestia its holiest of holies. With that, we’ll be forgiven for amending the Charter, and whatever else stands in our way. But we must proceed cautiously: as Sidel said, the Archbishop’s consent is paramount. Therefore, we have to anticipate every possible obstacle first and have solutions for them all. That way, her consent won’t be a matter of choice; it’ll be the only logical conclusion.”

“The only logical conclusion is that we’ll all lose our seats for bringing this nonsense before the Emperor,” Lord Arundel snapped back. “Then our heads to the Knights of Seiros for blaspheming.”

As the Ministers debated, Hubert dared to shift his position, his sore knees aching from kneeling for so long. He didn’t fit in the little hollow behind the council room wall as easily as he used to, but it was much less dangerous than trying to listen at the keyhole. He glanced at the candle beside him, notched in the wax to mark the time he had left. The Ministers gave no signs that they would adjourn soon, but he had only another half-hour before Anton expected his return. Hubert gave himself a few more minutes, and then was resigned to half-shuffling, half-crawling his way back to the main servants’ passage.

When he emerged from the exit outside the council room, he was shocked to discover someone else in the hall. A boy in a rich blue doublet was leaning against the door, his face pressed to the keyhole. With his back to Hubert, he hadn’t noticed his entrance. With his mop of carrot-orange hair, he was also far from inconspicuous.

Hubert bit back a sigh. He stomped his feet in place as though he’d just walked around the corner. The boy, predictably, jumped away from the door so fast he almost tripped.

“Are you lost, Master Aegir?” Hubert said flatly. “This wing is off-limits to guests.”

Ferdinand von Aegir tried at least seven different beginnings before he found his response.

“Y-yes! Yes, ah, very lost, so sorry, just completely lost my way while I was uh, looking for my father!” He gestured to the door with a wide, fake smile plastered onto his face. “Well! I found him!”

Hubert made sure to stare long enough for Ferdinand to squirm before he replied.

“I’ll guide you out, then.” It was not an offer. Ferdinand’s smile struggled to stay in place, but he clasped his hands together as though this was a great relief.

“Wonderful!” he lied badly as he began to follow Hubert. “Thank you, Hubert!”

“Master Vestra.”

“Oh—sorry, I heard Clement—er, Lord Clement, sorry—call you Hubert earlier, so I assumed—sorry, I didn’t know there was a rule.“

“There isn’t. But the imperial family, by right, can call me what they like.” He lengthened his stride just enough that Ferdinand had to jog a few yards to catch up.

“Well, I don’t mind being called just Ferdinand, if you feel like it.” Ferdinand offered a slightly more genuine smile this time. “After all, our fathers use their given names, and one day you and I will take up their chairs! Won’t it be exciting to be on the Council of Ministers together!”

“Hm. I can hardly wait.”

But as they walked, an idea was planted in Hubert’s head and began to grow.

“Has your father taught you much about being Prime Minister, Master Aegir?” he asked.

Ferdinand’s chest immediately puffed up like a proud rooster asked to show off his crow. “Of course! I’ve been tutored by some of the very best minds in the Empire! My father has made sure I’m well-prepared for the scope of the Prime Minister’s work. I even joined him on his annual inspection of our county last fall, after the harvest.”

“But he doesn’t share what he talks about in Council meetings,” Hubert pointed out. Ferdinand deflated.

“Are you saying you’ll report me?” Like a rooster again, Ferdinand seemed ready to scratch at the dirt and charge. “Do you mean to threaten me, Hubert? Because I have every right to break a few hallway rules if they’re in service to the Empire! If there are some parts of my future post that I have to learn through listening at doors, well, that’s my business!”

“It wasn’t a threat,” Hubert said drily, “it was an offering. As you might’ve noticed, I’m not allowed in Council meetings either.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand blinked. “Right. What are you offering, then?”

Hubert tried to ignore the tight, nervous fluttering in his stomach. Surely this couldn’t be so hard? Other people did it all the time, didn’t they?

“I’m offering to be friends,” he told Ferdinand. “To be…helpful to you, if you’ll be helpful to me.”

Ferdinand blinked again.

“Look,” Hubert huffed, “we can exchange information. News from the other region usually passes through Aegir County before it arrives in Enbarr. Your father sees a lot of messages before mine does. If you can find a way to make copies of those, and then get the copies to me, I don’t have to risk my father catching me with his mail. And in return, I’ll send you the meeting minutes, so _you_ won’t be caught listening at doors.”

Ferdinand crossed his arms. “You said you weren’t allowed in meetings either!”

“Do you think I found you because I was wandering down the wrong hall?”

Ferdinand frowned harder, but after considering Hubert for a long moment, he uncrossed his arms and held out his hand. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“This is conditional,” he warned. “I’ll accept your terms until I can think of how to improve them.”

“That’s not how this works,” Hubert protested, but Ferdinand squeezed his hand harder, making him wince.

“That’s exactly how friendship works!” he said, his sunny smile back in place. He released Hubert’s hand only to thump him on the back. “Y’know, I think this will be good, actually! With my example, I think you’ll really improve yourself as a future politician! And I can always use more practice with diplomacy.”

“My thanks in advance, then,” Hubert growled, already feeling regret.

* * *

Mourning, like winter, receded slowly. For the servants, it was only a matter of removing the black ribbons from their sleeves. But a chill lingered over the imperial family. The Emperor’s bad spells took him twice as long to recover from. His consorts tiptoed around their wing, speaking in quiet tones as though they were afraid too much noise would send the Angel of Death after them next. Lord Fabian didn’t joke as much as he used to. Lady Kristina still lacked focus in her eyes.

She was married, as planned, to Abelard von Nuvelle, who arrived with a whole fleet of ships as a gift for his new father-in-law. On the wedding day, the Emperor barely made it through the cathedral service, so Anton had to assume the duty of host for the banquet. Even under the happy circumstances, he conducted himself with the rigidity of a businessman. After the toast, he ignored the music and dancing in favor of carrying on a hushed conversation with Duke Aegir in the corner.

Left to his own devices, Hubert wandered the perimeter of the ballroom. Balls had never interested him much; he already had his fill of discussing the small affairs of the nation in his daily life. All gossip was already old news. He thought of alerting Ferdinand about Duke Aegir’s conversation with Anton, but Ferdinand had already fled with a gaggle of other boys to break in a new pair of dueling rapiers. Hubert wasn’t sure watching Caspar von Bergliez earn a black eye was a more appealing alternative than watching the dances.

He spotted her on his third lap around. In a dress of stormy grey, she was almost invisible against the stone wall.

“Oh, Hubert.” Edelgard made only a small attempt at a smile. “There you are.”

“What happened to your plans, my lady?” Hubert nodded to her shoes. “I remember you saying you were going to dance until your feet fell off, and yet they’re still attached.”

Her laugh was little more than a breath. “I’m not in the mood, I guess. My feet get to live another day.”

“If you’re tired, I could escort you upstairs?” Hubert offered, but she shook her head. He moved to stand beside her and they lapsed into silence, watching the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Hubert saw her idly twist the Empress’ eagle-head bracelet on her wrist.

“Will it be this fast?” she suddenly asked. Hubert turned to her, but she was still focused on the dancers. Kristina was accepting the arm of her new son. Though he was a boy of hardly ten, there were fewer years between them than her and her husband. “They’ll find me a match, and if it’s a good deal, it’ll all be settled in three months?”

“Not always,” Hubert tried to reassure her. “Matches are as complicated as the people involved, Lady Edelgard.”

“You’re saying _I’m_ complicated?”

“You’re…well, your circumstances are more unique, which might complicate some things, yes.”

“My Crest, you mean,” she ground out, her head snapping to the side to look at him. “It’ll take longer for your father to haggle over it.”

The blame in her gaze made Hubert bristle.

“My father doesn’t get his way with everything,” he said firmly. “It takes many people to decide a course of action for the Empire. That’s why the Emperor needs a Council. That’s why the army needs more than one general. Even when things go wrong, you can’t lay the blame only at the top. If a judge orders an execution, he’s not the man who wields the axe.” He nodded to Kristina. “If a marriage is arranged, it’s not the priestess who gives her hand at the altar.”

Edelgard glared. “So according to you, if a ruler’s a monster, it’s not their fault—blame the soldiers who follow their orders!”

“No. Blame the advisors who let them make orders.” Hubert squared his shoulders. “You’re assuming everyone involved in governing only wants to help themselves. One day, Lady Edelgard, I’ll have my father’s post, and _I_ won’t let anyone haggle over you.”

Edelgard was the first to look away. She touched the bracelet again, tracing the points of the eagles’ beaks.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she sighed. “I don’t want to argue, Hubert. I’m sorry. When I get in a mood, I seem to drag everyone down with me.”

Hubert didn’t like seeing her this way: dejected and defeated, washed of all vibrancy. When the musicians struck up the next number, he pushed away from the wall.

“You couldn’t drag me down if you tried, my lady.” He offered his hand. “Come on. If we work at it, we might be able to lose one foot each before the night is over.”

Edelgard hesitated, but finally she took it. As they neared the dance floor, she said something, but the music was too loud to hear. He gestured to his ear, waiting for her to repeat herself, but she shook her head and mouthed a clear, _Never mind._

He chose not to press her, figuring it must not have been important.

* * *

A month later, on the cusp of the Harpstring Moon, a ship was sighted entering Enbarr Harbor: charred and battered, its sails pock-marked with holes. Its mast bore the flags of the Empire and House Nuvelle.

Above them both flew two more: the white flag for aid, and the black of war.

* * *

Dagdan ships, it was said, possessed great iron mouths that belched fire. With no warning, they’d surrounded Nuvelle’s gleaming city and tore through her docks, spitting boulders through the Adrestian navy as easily as children threw rocks at paper boats. A blockade now surrounded the city while enemy scouts approached the mouth of the western river. It was unknown if they’d reached the shores of Ochs County, but it could only be a matter of time.

Lords Fabian, Ernst, and Symon were the first in line at the Emperor’s bedchamber door the following morning.

“We want Father’s permission to join the Imperial Army,” Ernst said. He put his hands on his brothers’ shoulders, the three of them holding formation. “We’ve not had Anton’s training, but we’re prepared to give our lives for the Empire. Our own sister is under siege—we want to be put to use.”

If Hubert thought his father would protest, he was wrong. A new lecture in the repertoire: war did not care for noble pride. It was only another matter of numbers. If Dagda couldn’t be driven from the sea, they would have to be beaten back on land before they could breach too far into the interior. Armies need bodies, noble or not. The three princes left with the infantry before the week was out.

But Anton, Heir Apparent, wasn’t a body that could be risked. His coats were changed for the cardinal red cape of a field general, even though he would never venture beyond the war table. That seemed to sit fine with him. Of every man there, he was the most comfortable surveying reports and maps, running his hands over them like they were old friends. Garreg Mach’s work again, Hubert thought.

There was always the palpable fear of an invasion that heated the war room air. News from the battalions sailing and marching westward took several days to travel back to Enbarr. Ferdinand’s letters said there were conflicting rumors whether House Nuvelle was being held prisoner for future ransom, escaped the city, or had all died weeks ago when the messenger ship was launched. It felt like they were all watching a fire burn from a distance, trying to guess at the size of the danger only by its smoke.

In the war room, the Emperor was often distracted. His gaze would wander to the Charioteer’s Crown, ceremoniously placed at his right side. There was a legend that its horns were real bone beneath the gold, taken from the Goddess-sent ram that led Wilhelm von Hresvelg to the hill that would become Enbarr. Hubert watched the Emperor’s eyes return to its winking pearl again and again, as though he saw the ram’s ghost in its place. For once, his ministers didn’t hide their agitation from him.

“Reports have confirmed that some of the enemy’s ships fly the flag of Brigid. If that’s true, they’ve broken the terms of our treaty. They shouldn’t expect to be spared any differently than Dagda.”

“What if we called for aid? Surely the Church—”

“—Would plead neutrality in ‘secular matters,’ as it always does. Lady Rhea never moves to bite unless someone steps on her tail.”

“And those Alliance thieves would love nothing more than to take our eastern coast, if given the chance. I don’t think I even need mention the Faersh. They’d probably throw a ball for the invaders at the border!”

“Faerghus has its natural defenses, yes, but I can assure that from my sources, the King does not look kindly upon these invaders,” Lord Arundel protested. He turned to the Emperor. “Your Majesty, I believe we might benefit greatly from an alliance with them. With our two naval forces combined, the western coast could quickly be reclaimed.”

Duke Aegir scoffed, “In exchange for what? Faerghus only looks after the interests of Faerghus. They’ve had the same mindset since the days of Loog: they believe they do everything better by themselves. To rack up a debt to the Faersh would be disastrous, Your Majesty.”

“What of Brigid, Your Majesty?” pressed Lord Hevring.

“Yes, Your Majesty, we must act against Brigid—”

“Your Majesty?”

The Emperor stood suddenly, his breathing labored. He braced his hands on the table to keep his balance. Hubert’s father stepped forward, leaning down to whisper a question to him.

“All of you, out,” the Emperor ordered, still panting. “Now.”

There was a moment of awkward shuffling as the ministers pushed away their chairs, slowly trickling out the door. Hubert watched as the Emperor mumbled something to his father, who only nodded and strode out of the room with purpose in his eyes. Hubert left his corner to follow Anton, but Anton was still in his chair, watching the crowd ebb away.

“Once they’re out, Hubert, lock the door,” he ordered quietly.

The temperature dropped significantly once the war room was depleted of bodies. The Emperor’s breathing was easing as Anton stood, walking slowly around the table to join him at the head.

“Father,” he said. “This cannot continue.”

The Emperor rubbed a hand over his face, scratching at his beard. “I’m perfectly well. It’s all their squabbling. The noise makes my head throb.”

Anton hummed in acknowledgment. He looked down at the Charioteer’s Crown between them, his eyes tracing the swirling horns. With another deep breath, the Emperor eased himself back into his chair, looking weary.

“Father, may I speak honestly with you?” Anton asked. “As a soldier, not your son.”

The Emperor nodded. Anton straightened up, that comfortable confidence bolstering his frame as he said,

“You’re not capable of leading Adrestia through this war.”

It was so quiet in the room that Hubert thought he could hear his own heartbeat. He’d never seen such fury on the Emperor’s face before.

“You are aware,” he seethed, “that to say that is treason? That you’re questioning my right—my _divine right_ —to rule?”

“Divine right,” Anton mused. “Such a funny concept, isn’t it? That because one ancestor was blessed, all of us must be.” In spite of the Emperor’s rage, he smiled as though this were a polite tearoom debate. “But tell me, Father, what has St. Seiros done for us all these years? Did she appear to your father on his coronation day? Did she appear to _you?”_

“Enough,” the Emperor barked. His arms shook as he gripped the edge of the table. “Where’s Gotfrid?” He looked up and found Hubert still standing at the locked door. “Hubert, send for—”

Anton’s hand landed on the Charioteer’s Crown. Its pearl swung under the impact, clinking against the gold plate. The Emperor started as though he’d been slapped.

“Do you think divine right would protect you?” Anton said slowly, his voice soft. “That a dead ram’s head is as good as a shield? You’ve known peace in your time, Father. Border skirmishes, peasant revolts, easy games that anyone can win behind the palace walls. You’ve never charged into battle with only a blade standing between you and a hundred men. You’ve never taken a bolt of lightning through your veins and remained standing. You’ve heard of beasts hunting in the mountains, but you’ve never felt their teeth.

“But you’re inexperienced, not callous. You love Adrestia. To see her ravaged pains you as though she were your own flesh and blood.” Anton picked up the crown, weighed it in his hands. The Emperor watched with horror, but made no move to stop him. “That’s why I believe you’ll see reason and agree to what I ask. Your love is stronger than your pride.”

The Emperor narrowed his eyes. “What is it you ask?”

Anton held out the crown. Carefully, the Emperor took it, his bony fingers trembling as they wrapped around the golden horns.

“That you concede your pride,” he said. “Relinquish your role as Head of the Imperial Army. Let the Council manage the war.”

The Emperor’s grip tightened as he hissed, “I will _not_ abdicate.”

“And you won’t. We only need a leader of armies so long as there’s a war, don’t we? It will be a temporary measure, a sign of trust in the nobility who are beginning to trust you less.” Anton put his hands on the Emperor’s shoulders, his tone once more friendly, a parent reassuring a child. “A sign of trust in your legacy, divine right be damned.”

Hubert moved out of the way quickly when the door behind him opened with a click, revealing his father with key still in hand. He’d brought a pitcher of cold water with him, a goblet stacked on the plate beside it. Anton smiled to see him.

“Think on it, Father,” he said to the Emperor as he left the table. “Gotfrid, let us know when to return, will you?” He left Hubert the task of cutting a path through the throng of ministers still waiting outside.

* * *

His Majesty held on til summer, until the Battle of Two Rivers. Ferdinand wrote, in a shaky hand, that reports counted two thousand fallen soldiers of the Empire, left to be picked apart by crows and buzzards on the flooded plain. Forts sighted ships off the coast of Ochs County: short-masted, Brigid-built.

Lord Fabian took an arrow to the neck. Lord Ernst, just shy of his twentieth birthday, passed from infection in a field camp a week later. Lord Symon’s remains were identified by the stitching on his gloves. His plate mail had been looted—whether by Dagdans or his own gravediggers, no one knew.

After he pressed it into the wax to seal the decree, the Emperor gave his signet ring to Hubert’s father, who slid it onto Anton’s finger as the Council of Ministers watched.

Summer bled to fall. The Battle of Kindel Bay chased Brigid from the coast. The Battle of Brion’s Gate left behind more Dagdan bodies than Adrestian. Numbers, everything was ruled by numbers and numbers alone. They pushed Dagda west, to the edge of Nuvelle County, to the edge of the sea.

But numbers could not combat the storms that thronged the coast when the seasons turned. Fall limped on to winter, and so did the war.

* * *

That time, Edelgard found him. Hubert was inventorying the palace storerooms, managing the master book while his father’s other clerks climbed over barrels and crates, counting casks of wine and hunks of smoked meat. It was cold enough underground to see his breath fog in the stale air; some of the clerks were dressed more thickly than people on the streets outside.

“There you are!”

When he turned, she was perched on a pile of flour sacks, arms hugging her chest.

“I won’t ask who you bribed to show you where the trap door is,” Hubert warned. “But you know I’ll find out anyway.”

“I never bribe anyone. I just ask politely.” Edelgard hopped down, hugging herself tighter as she shivered on the landing. “Saints and angels, it’s freezing! Have you really been down here all morning?”

“It’s easier to count it all in one day.” He nodded to the clerks in the distance, oblivious to her arrival. “No one’s in good spirits if you work a few hours and then tell them they have to keep coming back.”

“Then I’ll leave you be. I only wanted to know where I could find Lady Gertrud. She told me last week that she has an old easel she wanted to give me, but her apartments were locked. Mother hasn’t seen her either, so I thought she must’ve gone out.”

Hubert hesitated, his pen hovering over the inventory sheet. He wrote down a few figures as the clerks called them out, but Edelgard remained at his side, waiting.

“Lady Gertrud has left Enbarr,” he said. “She returned to Aegir County a few days ago.”

Edelgard frowned. “Why didn’t she say anything? Has she gone to visit her family?”

“No, my lady. She’s gone to live with them.”

Edelgard glanced at the clerks again, and then moved closer to whisper, “Did…did Father send her away?”

“No. She asked to resign her position as Imperial Consort and surrender her privileges. I believe she was going to write to your mother and the others once she was settled again.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Lady Edelgard. She didn’t want to be subject to gossip. No one was meant to know.”

Edelgard’s shock slowly abated to a look of utter sadness, and then dismal acceptance.

“She left because Symon was her only son,” she realized. “She’s too old to have another.”

Hubert nodded once. Edelgard exhaled, her breath forming a small cloud.

“And Ernst… If Margrite’s married, or if she dies, will Lady Keterlyn go too?”

“I don’t know,” said Hubert truthfully. “No consort has to, if they’re still in His Majesty’s favor.”

Edelgard didn’t reply. Her teeth were chattering as she shivered.

“Go back upstairs, my lady,” Hubert urged her, but as always, she showed no inclination to listen to him. The clerks were moving on to their next section. When they were mostly hidden behind the stock, Hubert unclasped his thick traveling cloak with one hand and held out the edge to Edelgard. He expected her to take the whole thing from his shoulders, but instead she folded into his side as she wrapped the end around them both.

“I hate this,” she said. Only her eyes were visible above the black wool. “I hate the war.”

“It’ll be over soon. With your brother at the helm, Brigid and Dagda will be defeated come spring. Then we can begin the counter-strike.”

“For what?” Edelgard argued. “What does it matter if we get even with Brigid and Dagda? Everyone’s still dead. It won’t bring them back.”

“No,” Hubert agreed, because he couldn’t think of anything else that would be comforting—if there was any comfort Edelgard would accept. It was getting more apparent that she was too intelligent to bear the treatment that soothed other nobles, the reassurances that everything would work out fine, the Household would set it to rights. She’d seen behind the curtain and now she didn’t want to keep it drawn. Was that his fault? Or with her insatiable curiosity, her honest empathy, was it inevitable?

“You’re got your thinking face on again. The miserable one.”

“It’s nothing important,” he lied. “I’m thinking of how I hate the war too.”

With that, he threw the other side of his cloak from his shoulders to wrap the whole of it around Edelgard, securing it beneath her chin. The hem puddled around her feet.

“When I’m finished here, I’ll unlock Lady Gertrud’s apartments to see if she left the easel,” he said. “If I find it, I’ll bring it to you.” He held out the inventory book to her. “Go on, double-check it. If you keep busy, you won’t feel so cold.”

“Now you’re obviously trying to get rid of me,” Edelgard grumbled, but she accepted the book and pen. She had to bundle the bottom of his cloak under one arm to keep from tripping over it as they neared the clerks. “Fine. But you owe me a favor, since I don’t have any work to trade.”

“Isn’t finding the easel enough?”

“If Lady Gertrud’s rooms were in a scorching desert.”

Hubert rolled his eyes. “You know, my lady, when you inherit Arundel County you’ll have to live with winters that have real snow.”

“Don’t remind me,” Edelgard moaned, burrowing her nose in the collar. But she set herself to reviewing his pages, and as Hubert answered a clerk who’d discovered a rotting barrel, he tried to follow her example and lose himself in the work.

* * *

The easel was still there, tucked in the back of Lady Gertrud’s empty wardrobe. Hubert could see why she’d thought of Edelgard: it was a lighter model, easy to fold up and carry over a shoulder without assistance. Even with help, inventory had taken longer than he’d expected, and he was running behind on the rest of the day’s work. He decided that instead of carrying it to Lady Isengard’s—where Edelgard had gone to defrost—he’d leave it for her in her own apartments.

He used the servants’ passage to enter directly into the bedchamber. He leaned the easel against the side of a vanity whose surface was piled with a whole heap of tangled hair ribbons. After mulling it over, he decided to pluck one and tie it around the easel legs so it wouldn’t unfold and topple over. If Lady Patricia noticed it, she’d likely assume one of her maids had gotten bored.

He was still bent down, fixing the bow, when he caught the voices through the door.

_“It’s not dangerous, Volkhard, it’s suicidal! They’d never let us return—we’d lose everything!”_

There were candles lit in the adjacent room, Lady Patricia’s parlor. The crack of light that snuck under the door flickered in and out as someone paced past it, to and fro.

_“We’ll lose everything soon enough if we stay! Things are changing too quickly. This war is only the beginning.”_

Carefully, Hubert neared the bedchamber door, measuring out each footstep to land in time with Lord Arundel’s pacing. There was no keyhole to look through, but the light kept flashing as Lord Arundel wandered around, agitated. Hubert could picture the scene well enough.

“Thirteen years, Patricia, thirteen years I’ve done my best for this family. I got our lands back, our status. I made sure we were elevated to our rightful place in this court. For thirteen years, ’von Arundel’ has been the name of envy! So what if it made the old Council crows green? We had allies where it mattered: the Empress, the clergy. We had El. They might rattle the foundations, but I built House Arundel to last.

“Now, do you know what will burn it down? Technicalities. Little technicalities, pieced into the Imperial Charter centuries ago, that the Crown Prince is sniffing out like a hound after a fox. First the Emperor handed over the title Head of Armies. Just one name, just one job he didn’t want to do. Then they discovered that the Head of Armies needs the Ministry of Trade to feed the troops, and so that command was passed on. Then the war needed money, always more money, so the Ministry of Finance was made subservient too.

“But so what—why should that matter? We’re at war! These are measures to ensure our survival! They’ll be reversed once the Dagdans are sent back to hell!” Lord Arundel slowed, his shadow lingering. “But now the Council’s realized that it’s easy to make little changes. To act on technicalities. Now the Charter looks like only paper and ink, doesn’t it? It’s easy to rewrite. And His Majesty no longer holds the pen.”

“So you’d have me abandon Ionius for wanting what’s best for the nation?” Hubert had never heard Lady Patricia sound so angry before. “He’s no chessmaster, but he’s not soft, nor a fool. He could bring his ministers back in line if he only had support—”

Lord Arundel laughed, high and cold. “Yes, with support he could rule supreme, just like he used to: making decrees from his sickbed that never reach the table, because Gotfrid von Vestra rips them up the moment he’s out the door.”

It took Hubert a moment to notice he’d stopped breathing.

A lighter set of footsteps slowly clicked across the floor, followed by the rustle of a dress folding as a lady sat.

“But El… If we leave, she has nothing. She becomes no one. We’ve done so much…”

“El still has a chance.” Another rustle: Lord Volkhard sitting beside his sister. “There are other ways to secure her future. I’ve managed to get word to Lord Gaspard, and he thinks introductions could still be arranged, just more carefully. Her Crest remains priceless; even the King might be interested. We just have to get across the border.”

The silence was so long that Hubert wondered if somehow they'd left the apartments without him knowing, but then came a small, despairing moan. Lady Patricia was crying.

 _“We could never come back,”_ she lamented. _“We could never come back.”_

Hubert didn’t know how long he stood there. When he finally heard the sounds of the Arundels leaving, his legs were so stiff that it hurt to move. The easel still stood upright, neatly tied like he’d left it, an offering at an empty altar.

* * *

It was hard to get Lady Patricia alone. If she wasn’t with the Emperor, she was with the other consorts, or her lady-in-waiting, or another visiting noblewoman, or with Edelgard. Hubert couldn’t ask in front of Edelgard. He was certain she had no idea what her uncle was planning, and better it stayed that way; even if she could be trusted with a secret, it was better not to put her to the test.

One morning, he manufactured a reason to go with his father to wake the Emperor like he used to. While his father arranged the queue in the anteroom, Hubert gripped Lady Patricia’s pale shoulder and shook her awake.

The moment she opened her eyes, he leaned in and whispered, “Take me with you.”

She blinked at him, unfocused. “What?”

“When you go,” he repeated slowly, glancing at the Emperor to make sure he was still snoring, “take me with you. I can help. I can protect you.”

Lady Patricia pushed herself up, gathering her hair over one shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean, Master Vestra,” she said, but he could tell that she did.

“Please,” Hubert hissed. “I’d rather serve you than the rest of them. And I know how to get you out of the palace. I’ve already taught Lady Edelgard. Just promise you’ll take me too.”

Lady Patricia stared at him, her violet eyes as hard as flint.

The snoring ceased. The Emperor groaned, “Is that the circus I hear outside?”

“Yes, my love,” Lady Patricia answered, but she was looking at Hubert as she agreed.

* * *

They called it the Miracle of St. Macuil because the battle fell on his holy day. In actuality, it’d been planned for that date because that was the week the stormy weather was predicted to lift at last, granting calm seas for the Adrestian navy to finally chase away the remaining invaders. The days leading up to it delivered sun and good wind, a promising sign of victory.

But all the reports from the battlefield spoke of a storm.

The heavens opened, they said, as the Saint himself came to defend Adrestia. Bolts of lighting rained from the sky, hotter and whiter than any sighted before, striking down the enemy with holy wrath. They rained for miles, stretching from the shallow waters into the land of Nuvelle County. Field generals fell to their knees and wept with awe. The entire Brigid fleet, anchored for reinforcements some leagues away, watched their allies crumble and surrendered without ever coming to shore.

Nuvelle’s city, held under siege for twelve moons, was liberated at the cost of near ten thousand lives. By St. Macuil’s hand they perished, and by St. Macuil’s hand they were saved.

They couldn’t find the bodies of Lord Nuvelle and his family. There were no features that could be discerned amongst the ashes.

The Emperor refused the ritual. He had dressed in black since news came of Lady Kristina’s death, wouldn’t take down the cloths that covered the mirrors and metals in his rooms lest they trap his daughter’s wandering soul. So it was Anton who took up the task of going to the balcony that faced Lycaon’s Square. When he held aloft the Charioteer’s Crown, a throng of thousands cheered. Adrestia, triumphant.

A technicality in the Imperial Charter: in the event of an absent or incapacitated emperor, their immediate successor could be instated as regent. His Majesty hardly ate, wasn’t sleeping. The Council of Ministers called Lady Keterlyn to a session, where she testified in a trembling voice that the Emperor told her the ghost of Lord Ernst often appeared to him, his sickly face green and swollen. Sometimes he saw Fabian or Symon or Kristina. Sometimes he saw the Empress. Lady Keterlyn was thanked for her honesty, and assured that in exchange for her testimony she would be allowed to keep all of her property acquired during her time as Imperial Consort; Lady Margrite could also retain her title after the two of them returned to Boramas County, but she’d no longer be in line for the throne.

His Imperial Highness Antonius von Hresvelg, Prince Regent, was now only eldest of six.

On the first of the Garland Moon, the navy sailed west to even the score.

* * *

Hubert shouldn’t have expected Lady Patricia would honor her promise. He was no closer to her than to any of the other consorts, and how could she have known of his pact with Edelgard? That wouldn’t sway her. What difference would it make that one servant loved her daughter—everyone did.

Still, when the page came running for him, when he heard the gasps and frantic gossip among the staff as he hurried through the servants’ passages, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

Lord Arundel had blood running down the sides of his neck, making an ugly stain on his starched white collar. He was still struggling as the guards hauled him down the hallway, demanding to see the Emperor, demanding he be treated as a proper lord.

“Last I checked, a proper lord doesn’t pay a highwayman for safe passage through the Morgaine Ravine, out of sight of the army posts,” cackled a dry voice.

Hubert’s hair stood on end.

“Hello, scarecrow,” Monica von Ochs cooed when he turned. She was leaning against the wall and juggling something small between her hands, the shape flashing too quickly for him to see. When she caught it again, she grinned and opened her palm, revealing two bloodied ruby earrings. “Couldn’t let him walk out with imperial property, could I?” Without waiting for an answer, she looked beyond Hubert and whistled. “The parade continues!”

Lady Patricia did not resist the guards as they marched her between them, their armored gloves wrinkling her elegant sleeves. She held her head high and said nothing. She passed Hubert and Monica without paying them a single glance.

“So cold!” Monica faked a shiver. “Pity she’ll never be Queen of Faerghus. Not that she had much of a chance.” She winked at Hubert. “King Lambert only fucks blondes.”

Patricia’s lady-in-waiting came next, crying hysterically, then Arundel’s coachman, groaning with a black eye and a bloodied nose. After a page boy was wrestled past them, shouting at the top of his lungs that he only carried the letters, never read them, Hubert forced himself to face Monica again.

“Where’s Lady Edelgard?”

“Oh, the precious El? His Highness wants her questioned. She’ll be under guard in that hideous apartment until she starts squealing, but I think we should give her a taste of the dungeon to speed—hey! Scarecrow! Don’t you know it’s rude to run from your betters without being dismissed!”

Hubert feared she’d give chase, but Monica stayed laughing to herself, still juggling the earrings between her hands.

* * *

The House Arundel doors had been torn from their hinges. Hubert had to step over the flying swallow to enter.

The interior was torn asunder. Mirrors were shattered, chairs overturned. A trail of gowns spilled from a toppled trunk, the fabrics marred with the boot prints of the guards. They’d searched through everything: the tea sets; the jewel cases; even Edelgard’s box of sketching charcoal was spilled. Hubert looked at the black stain ground into the carpet and felt so angry that his hands shook.

“Lady Edelgard?” he called. Broken porcelain crunched beneath his shoes as he searched. “Lady Edelgard, it’s only me.”

“…I’m in here.”

He’d only been to the study a handful of times; a lifetime ago, Anton had recited for Lady Patricia there while Hubert would wait in the parlor. The floor was littered with the remains of Lord Arundel’s books and papers. Even the paintings had been stripped from their frames so that the canvases could be searched for hidden notes.

He found Edelgard curled into a ball, crouched in the fireplace.

She hardly fit. She was still small, but she had to tuck her head between her knees to squeeze into the hollow. He hadn’t spotted her earlier because the ashes had coated her back, covering her brown hair.

“My lady,” Hubert said, kneeling down. “The guard left. You can come out.”

Edelgard’s hunched form twitched. He realized she was shaking her head no.

“I’m going to take you to Lady Rosine. You’ll be safe with her.”

“No,” Edelgard croaked. “No one is safe.”

“I promise you, I won’t let—”

“Not me,” she cut in. “It’s everyone else who’s not safe from me.”

Hubert moved closer, reaching out to touch her arm—but he couldn’t. His hand stopped at the edge of the fireplace as though it met a wall of glass. He pushed, but the air itself seemed to harden and block his way. When he withdrew his hand, the air shimmered with light. Briefly, he could make out the shape of the Crest of Seiros stretched over the fireplace, large enough to nestle Edelgard in the center.

Slowly, she unwrapped one hand from her knees and pointed to the opposite side of the room.

“The guard didn’t leave,” she whispered.

There was no question the man was dead: the bookshelf behind him bore a trail of blood where his head had slid down the length of it. When Hubert felt the guard’s chest, it caved under his hand, revealing a score of broken ribs. There was a scraping sound, and he turned to find Edelgard holding out a fire iron. It was bent at the end like a weak spoon.

“He locked me in. I took it to break the window, thinking I’d call for help, but when he heard the glass shatter he opened the door, and then—” The fire iron fell onto the bricks with a loud _clang._ “I just wanted to knock him down, so I could run. But he grabbed my leg, and he was screaming that my mother would hang for this.” Her shoulders shook when she breathed in. “When I stopped, I didn’t even feel tired. My Crest—it made it feel so easy.”

Hubert stood up. “Your mother won’t hang.”

“No. Traitors are beheaded.” More ash trickled down as she curled further against the brick. “I’ll be the one hanged, for murder.”

“Lady Edelgard, please, come out,” Hubert pleaded. The intensity of his own desperation was starting to frighten him. “I can’t fix this if you stay in here.”

“I don’t want you to fix it!” When Edelgard raised her head, tears had streaked through the grey that caked one side of her face. “I want you to go! I’ll hurt you, Hubert!”

As her voice broke, the Crest of Seiros flashed brighter. Hubert was pushed backward as though hit by a strong wind. When he caught his balance, Edelgard had hunched into herself again. It was getting hard to see where the fireplace ended and the girl began.

Hubert looked down at the guard. He was a large man, but not taller than Hubert—few people were anymore—and he wouldn’t have to go far. There was the blood on the bookshelf, likely more on the floor, but Lord Arundel and his servants were bleeding too, thanks to Monica. If the guards hadn’t found the evidence Anton was looking for, then it could easily be fabricated later. Anton wouldn’t bother checking the apartments himself, wouldn’t wonder what’d happened in Patricia von Arundel’s study. He’d order someone else to pick out the intact fineries that remained, then to clean the apartments and lock them up, just as he’d done with the Empress, Lady Gertrud, and Lady Keterlyn.

That someone would be Hubert.

“My lady, cover your ears,” he instructed as he bent down to grasp the guard by the ankles. “I shouldn’t take long.”

Whether she obeyed or not, he couldn’t tell. He had to focus on dragging the guard over the detritus that covered the study floor, maneuvering him through the doorway, and then getting him over to the parlor’s much larger fireplace. By the time he’d gotten the body to fit as best he could, Hubert’s back ached from the effort and he felt his hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead. He took deep breaths to settle down, willing his hands to stop shaking.

Calm swept over him when he focused on the spell. He was still no expert with technique, but the pull was more familiar to him now. He could feel it building in him as he concentrated, the energy bubbling up as though excited at the prospect of being cast. It was eager, hungry.

Hubert waved his arms over the dead guard and bid it, _**Consume.**_

Black flames leapt from the brick. Hubert held the spell, watching them eat away first at the clothes, then the flesh. There was no smell; dark magic didn’t give off true heat. The ashes left behind were thick and grainy, clumping with the texture of wet sand. They coated Hubert’s hands as he picked through them to make sure nothing identifying was left behind. He hurriedly wiped them off on his coat when his skin began to itch with a strange chemical burn, as though even the ashes still longed to consume.

He returned to the study. At the fireplace edge, he felt for the Crest. It gave more under his hand this time, closer to the magnet repulsion he remembered, no longer as thick as a wall. He sat down and leaned forward as though he could rest against it.

“Do you remember when you first asked to go on a hunt?” Edelgard didn’t respond. “How dark and gloomy it was in the woods—and you tried so hard not to show you were afraid. But the whole time, I could tell you were looking for wolves at every turn.”

Carefully, he pushed on the Crest again. It seemed to harden when he applied more force, but if he moved slowly it softened, the shape wavering in the air.

“Do you remember how to escape from a wolf, my lady?”

Edelgard’s voice was ragged when she answered, “You have to climb a tree. High as you can, so they can’t reach.”

“If there was really a wolf that came for you, would you have done it? Climbed up until you couldn’t go any higher, even though you were afraid?”

“Yes.” Her legs shifted, the knot of her limbs slackening. “You said you’d come back to get me.”

“I did. And I would. And I will, when it’s safe again.” Hubert moved so that when she unfurled herself from the fireplace, the bloodstain would be blocked from her view. “But right now, listen: we don’t have much time. You have to start climbing.”

It held strong, but slowly the Crest of Seiros cracked, its crimson eggshell splintering and fading away. He helped Edelgard crawl out of the remains.

* * *

A healer had fixed Lord Arundel’s ears before the trial. He was an entirely different man in his rough prison shirt and trousers than the silver-tongued ambassador who’d swanned about in fine velvet and lace. His dark hair hung in greasy knots, his beard grown too long to be styled.

But there was still fire in his eyes when he made his defense, still iron in his spine as he stood to attention before the court room. His points were clear, simply-worded: how was it a crime for the Ambassador to Faerghus to communicate with the Faersh nobility? His sister had gone with him to Fhirdiad before, had the right and privilege to travel when and with whom she so chose. It was a planned diplomatic visit, necessary to ensure Adrestia and their northern neighbor remained on good terms after the Empire had been so busy with war. How could they be accused of fleeing, when they’d never even gotten into a carriage?

He held strong against Duke Aegir’s questioning. There were murmurs in the gallery; doubt clouded the Emperor’s face. Anton watched from the chair at his right side, completely unmoved.

“We call forth Patricia von Arundel to present her account,” he announced when Lord Arundel finished.

Lady Patricia hadn’t lost her beauty in prison, but there was a wan cast to her face, the sheen worn off of a pearl. Like her brother, she did not tremble before the court, and she spoke with conviction.

“I was afraid for my life,” she said. “Volkhard conspired with Faersh agents to get us out of Adrestia. He threatened that if I exposed him, I would be killed. His aim was to make an alliance with King Lambert by marrying my daughter to his heir. Volkhard thought that if he had no more influence over the throne of Adrestia, he could take Faerghus’ instead.”

Lord Bergliez had to pound his walking stick against the floor to get the gallery to cease shouting. As he demanded order, Hubert saw Lady Patricia meet the Emperor’s eyes. The glance that passed between them was devastating.

“Do you have evidence of this conspiracy?” Duke Aegir asked.

“Yes. I made copies of his correspondence with House Gaspard that detail his plans to give over our lands to them, in exchange for our introduction to Lambert’s court.” Lady Patricia turned her head to the Imperial Ministers’ benches. For a moment, Hubert thought she was looking directly at him. “I passed all of it on to Gotfrid von Vestra, in the hopes that he could intervene before it was too late. He can confirm that I speak truthfully.”

Hubert’s control slipped. He stared, slack-jawed, as his father stood up beside him.

“Can you confirm this, Lord Vestra?” Duke Aegir repeated.

“Yes, my lord.” Hubert’s father bowed his head. “It was I, Your Majesty, who relayed this information to the Prince Regent, that he could order the arrest.” With that, he took his seat again as the Ministers buzzed around him. “Close your mouth, boy,” he hissed to Hubert as he did.

“And what role did your daughter, Edelgard, play in all this, my lady?” Duke Aegir continued.

“None,” Lady Patricia insisted. “She knew nothing of Volkhard’s plans or his threats—I didn’t want to put her at risk.”

At this, Anton’s lips twitched at the corners.

“Then we call forth Edelgard von Hresvelg,” he ordered.

Lady Patricia was ushered away by the guard to make room at the witness stand. When Edelgard was led to take her place, Hubert had to sit on his hands so that his father wouldn’t see him fidget. Lady Isengard had done well—she’d made sure her little sister was dressed neatly and simply, no adornments, no grandeur. Edelgard’s hair was arranged so that it was pulled away from her face to fall down her back, a sharp contrast to her mother and uncle’s knots. She didn’t look anything like a prisoner. She looked like a young woman humbly answering her duty.

She curtseyed to her father and her brother, then to the Imperial Ministers and the gallery. She didn’t wear any gloves, as Hubert had instructed her, because she always pulled on the cuffs when she was nervous.

“Speak up, my lady, so that we may hear,” Duke Aegir coaxed. “Were you aware of your uncle’s plans?”

Edelgard licked her lips once before she answered, “No.”

“He or your mother didn’t hint to you that they had plans to leave the Empire? Or try to convince you to accompany them on this ‘diplomatic visit’ to Fhirdiad?”

“No. I knew Uncle wanted to travel north after the war ended, but neither he nor my mother ever implied I should go too.” Edelgard paused. “I believe that they didn’t want me to know, because they knew I’d refuse to leave Enbarr.”

“Why is that?”

“I wouldn’t leave my father.”

Duke Aegir gave her a pitying smile. “Surely, Lady Edelgard, you’re aware that you’re fourteen, no longer a child. Any young lady would be eager to see more of the world if given the chance, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, my lord. And I do.” Edelgard’s voice did not waver. “But since I was a child, I’ve cared for my father when he took ill. Many times he’d ask for me by name. Since my brothers’ and sister’s deaths, he’s taken ill more frequently, and suffered greatly. I’ve spent many days at his side this past year, hoping to offer what comfort I can. If I’d been asked—threatened, ordered, whatever you want to claim—to leave Adrestia, for his sake I’d still refuse.”

“And you can confirm all of this?”

Edelgard opened her mouth, but the Emperor’s voice came first.

“I can,” he said. Even from a distance, Hubert could see his eyes were shining with unshed tears. To Duke Aegir, he ordered, “Enough. She’s given her testimony, and in light of it, I find the charges against her ludicrous. Release her.”

Duke Aegir faltered, “Y-Your Majesty, to clear the charges there must be an agreement between—”

“—Between the Emperor and Regent. And I agree with my father.” Anton waved his hand. “Edelgard may go.”

Lady Patricia was clearly relieved as Edelgard was escorted away. She tried to express her thanks to Anton and the Emperor, but the court was too loud for her voice to carry. Lord Bergliez rapped his walking stick again, hollering for everyone to shut up, for love of the Goddess.

Anton ignored it all. He bent his head to whisper to his father, and after a moment, he announced they would retire to render the verdicts. The whole court stood and bowed as they took their leave from the room.

It was not long before they returned, wearing the same resolute expression.

“After considering the evidence presented today, His Majesty and I have reached a verdict,” Anton declared. “We find a lack of evidence on which to convict Edelgard von Hresvelg on charges of conspiracy against the Empire, and so release her. With her testimony, we find Patricia von Arundel to be truthful as well: that she acted on the orders and influence of Volkhard von Arundel, but out of loyalty, she assisted in bringing him to justice. For that, she will not be sentenced to death.

“But for abetting in conspiracy, she will be stripped of her rank of Imperial Consort. Her rights, property, and claim to Arundel County will be revoked. She is banished, henceforth, from all lands of the Adrestian Empire.”

As the noise rose again, Lady Patricia gripped the railing before her to steady herself, her chest heaving. Hubert strained to hear what she was saying.

“My daughter,” she pleaded at the Emperor, trying to be heard over the din. “You said if I cooperated, I could stay with my daughter!”

The Emperor did not meet her eyes.

“Edelgard von Hresvelg is a bearer of the Crest of Seiros,” Anton said, “a Crest bestowed upon the Emperor’s bloodline alone. It will remain with the imperial family, as will she.”

Lady Patricia struggled against the guards hauling her back to the door, her voice rising as she continued to beg, “Ionius, please! It’s all been for her, always for her, and if it were not for her sake I would never have—”

Lord Bergliez looked ready to snap his walking stick over someone’s head. Hubert could hardly hear himself think. Lady Patricia’s cries didn’t end until she was dragged from the courtroom, the doors slamming shut. The Emperor’s hands were pressed over his face. By the time Lord Arundel was brought back to the stand to hear his verdict, Anton had to repeat it several times:

“On charges of conspiracy and high treason, we find Volkhard von Arundel guilty. He is stripped of his rank, rights, and property. He holds no claim to Arundel County. He is henceforth sentenced to death by beheading.”

Lord Arundel didn’t beg. He let the guards seize him by the arms and drag him to the same doors his sister had gone through as the crowd booed and jeered. Right before he was forced out, Hubert watched as he inhaled deeply, and then spat on the floor, looking directly at Anton.

The Prince Regent didn’t so much as blink.

* * *

By the time he was led to the stage in Lycaon’s Square, Lord Arundel’s long hair had been sheared to the jaw—better for the executioner to aim. His earlobes still bore scars. Hubert knew with a sick certainty that somewhere among the crowd, Monica was here too, and she was delighted by the sight of them.

Someone pressed behind him, jostling Hubert forward. He held his ground, ignoring their demands that he go to the back, will you, some people want to _see._ He watched Lord Arundel be led to the block, dropping to his knees. He read the movements of his lips as they mumbled beneath his overgrown beard: a prayer, recited fervently.

As the executioner washed his blade with holy water, Hubert decided to try one more time. He ducked his head to whisper to the cloaked figure in front of him.

“You don’t have to watch, my lady.”

One more time, Edelgard shook her head.

“Yes, I do.”

When the sword went up, she reached for his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fare thee well, og Arundel………you didn't keep much but you DID keep your body this time………
> 
> \- The Empress’ wedding portrait in a yellow dress was jointly inspired by [this portrait](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Magnus_Gabriel_De_la_Gardie_med_makan_Maria_Eufrosyne%2C_m%C3%A5lning_av_Hendrik_M%C3%BCnnichhoven_fr%C3%A5n_1653.jpg) and [this one.](https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw03065/Henrietta-Maria)
> 
> \- I ended up getting, surprise surprise, SO interested in early modern funerals even though we didn't have time to really stage one in full, but if you want more funeral practice history please check out [some](http://www.anmal.uma.es/numero17/Romero.htm) [tidbits!](http://hoydensandfirebrands.blogspot.com/2009/07/17th-century-funeral-practices.html)
> 
> \- For the sake of my sanity, we’re just. gonna ignore all new the Cindered Shadows Patricia lore. It’s fine. 3H here is simply my dollhouse where I’ve taken out all of the furniture, rearranged it top to bottom, then shoved the dolls back in to see what happens. It’s far too late to go and change her name in this whole damn thing, AND HER NAME IS IN FACT ‘PATRICIA’ IN THE AO3 TAG SO PATRICIA IT WILL STAY. intsys stop releasing lore literal months after your game is released challenge jsdhfksj
> 
> \- On that note, while I did reference some of her backstory, Constance (or any of her sewer buddies) will not be making an appearance here! sryy
> 
> \- Hot fun fact from someone who’s written too much fic about royalty figures: pretty much every kind of aristocrat in the British convention is addressed as ‘Lord (Titlename)’, not by their actual rank. So Joe, a baron, would be in full ‘Joe, Baron of Somewhere’ and called ‘Lord Somewhere’ NOT ‘Baron Joe’ or ‘Baron Somewhere.’ I only write this in case anyone’s been wondering why Hubert’s dad is ‘Lord Vestra’ and not ‘Count Vestra’ in here! ‘Duke Aegir’ stayed the same bc the game referred to him that way, so I chose to accept that one discrepancy. Again, this is specific to the British convention, which I rely on largely because it’s way easier to find guides to—if anyone knows a research source that breaks down like, the French or German ways of doing this, hit me UP with that. 
> 
> \- Side note on that same topic: I have forever wanted to discuss how a title converted from Japanese to English ('-sama' -> 'lady') has led my brain down a wild trail of wondering if in canon, Edelgard, not being born heir automatically, was never actually given a ‘Crown Princess’ title bc the Slithers were so occupied with just getting their crest stuff done they didn’t really care about other procedures in setting her up to rule. It’s just interesting to me that characters like Claude call her ‘princess’ or ‘Imperial Princess’ but no one calls her ‘Princess Edelgard’ like Dimitri is ‘Prince Dimitri.’ If my memory’s correct, I don’t think Hubert ever refers to her with a ‘princess’ title or ANY title other than ‘lady’ until she’s coronated. Is that because she’s technically ranked as just a duchess??? AGAIN IT’S A LOT OF CONJECTURE BUT I JUST!! THINK ABOUT IT OFTEN………FELT COMPELLED ENOUGH TO BRING IT UP HERE WHERE IT DOESN’T APPLY…………
> 
> \- The legend and name of the horned crown is entirely made bc I’m addicted to making up stories about crown jewels (longtime followers are laughing at me rn). But the concept of Hresvelg #1 following a ram to find the location of his future capital was a very loose combo of [the myth of the founding of Tenochtitlan](https://www.ancient.eu/Tenochtitlan) and [the legend of St. Hubertus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubertus). If the name alone doesn’t clue you in, the latter also spawned, kind of, this entire story!! 
> 
> \- In case you forgot, this whole thing is yet another of my many love letters to Hilary Mantel [*blows a kiss to the trial of Anne Boleyn*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SB5XcFAUGa8)
> 
> "uh, did the chapter count change??" it sure did, lads. sometimes we outline a fic, and then we look at what is supposed to one (1) chapter, and then we laugh at why our past self thought we could cover an entire war in less than 5k words. then we look at a different chapter and wonder why we thought that one too would ever fit into one piece. then we swear under our breath and change the chapter count


	4. Matters of Blood. 1177-1180

It felt like wearing two faces—no, it felt like being two people who had to share one face. One of them was Master Vestra: obedient, focused, superbly efficient. The other was a young man who had red marks on his arm from the straps of his knife sheath, who practiced spells in the dark until his head throbbed. Master Vestra was secure in his position, confident. The other young man had only one goal, which was that if he ever left Enbarr, no one would be able to drag him back.

“You’re still going easy on me,” Hubert sighed, pulling his knife out of the tree trunk again. “If you don’t take this seriously, neither of us get any benefit.”

“For the thousandth time, I know,” Edelgard snapped. She brushed her hair roughly back from her face, breathing heavily. “Can’t you see that I’m trying!”

“Trying to kill the oaks, yes. Aim at _me.”_

“Get back in position and I will!”

Hubert grit his teeth and walked back to the starting line he’d drawn in the dirt. He flipped his knife from hand to hand while Edelgard readied herself at her point twenty paces away. He watched her bend her knees, adjusting her feet, and as soon as she took her stance, he rushed forward. Blade out.

For what really did feel like the thousandth time, the red flash of light was the only warning before Hubert was thrown head over heels down the garden path.

His vision was still swimming as Edelgard walked over and plucked his knife up from where it landed. She mimed a quick stab over his heart.

“There,” she said. “I aimed.”

She flopped down beside him. Though she’d hardly changed position during their practice, she was panting as though she’d run for miles, her cheeks burning red. Hubert eased himself up onto his elbows.

“My lady, I was serious when I said if this hurts you—”

“It doesn’t,” she insisted, her chest heaving. “It just feels—oh, I can’t even begin to explain. But that’s the last one I have in me today.” She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her glove. “Should we go back now?”

“Not yet. Catch your breath.” Hubert couldn’t resist smiling. “Your entire face is pink.”

Edelgard glared down at him. Wordlessly, she reached out and passed her hand through his hair. Dead leaves rained over his face.

“Your entire head is a bush.”

“…Another point to you.”

He set about picking out the twigs and debris tangled in his hair while Edelgard relaxed. It took only a few minutes for her to catch her breath and recover; a marked improvement from the early days of their experiments. He’d worried for a while that using her Crest too often would have a detrimental effect, but it appeared the more she summoned it, the stronger she got.

“How was I this time?” she asked.

“Much better. You’re getting faster; I don’t think I ever got within a few feet of you.” She looked pleased until Hubert added, “But not as good as you were when we tried the sword.”

Edelgard stood up, brushing the dirt from her coat. “I told you before: I can’t use a sword. There’s no reason I’d be allowed to have one in the first place, and you said that I should rely on what I can always have at hand.”

“It doesn’t have to be a sword.” Hubert flicked aside an acorn shell he found behind his ear. “It doesn’t matter what kind you pick. Even if you practiced with a stick, it might be as powerful as using a lance or mace. It’s just that no one’s ever written of the Crest of Seiros being used without a weapon, unless to heal.“

“So teach me to heal.”

“I barely know how to heal myself.”

Edelgard threw up her hands. “Then here we are again: the same place we end up every time we have this argument!”

Hubert bit back a sigh as she stomped away to collect her paintbox and easel where they rested against a tree. He picked away more dead leaves that were snared in his boot laces. When he looked up again, Edelgard was standing over him. She bit her lip, then offered a hand to pull him to his feet.

Every time they had this argument, it always ended quietly. Hubert suspected it was because neither of them really wanted to win it.

By way of apology, he offered his knife to her, handle-first, and nodded to one of the oaks. “If you’d do the honors?”

Lady Edelgard accepted it from him with a curt nod. But behind that face, he could see the other: the twinkling excitement of his friend as she went to the tree and gracefully slashed the sigil carved in the bark. The air shimmered in the aftermath of the broken cloaking spell, the sights and sounds of the outside world flooding back in.

When they returned from the gardens, Lady Isengard was waiting at the grand staircase, already dressed for dinner and looking furious.

“El!” she barked. “You said you’d be in the observatory!”

“I’ve painted the city roofs enough,” Edelgard protested. “I wanted to look at something different.”

“Then you should’ve said so! This is the third time this month you’ve gotten lost!”

“If I never leave the grounds, how could I get lost?” Edelgard let a footman take the easel and paintbox from her hands. “You don’t have to send Hubert after me every time.”

Isengard scoffed. “Of course I wouldn’t have to, if you went where you said you’d be! In fact, you should be more grateful that he takes the time to go find you; he’s lost an hour of his day now.” She put her hands on her hips, ordering, “Before you wander off next, think of how Hubert will be the one tasked to go find you, and act more considerate!”

Edelgard deflated, letting her shoulders droop with guilt. Hubert was starting to think she enjoyed acting through these confrontations too much.

“Fine. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Hubert,” she said, bowing her head to him.

Hubert returned the gesture. “It’s never a waste of time to ensure my lady’s safety.”

As Edelgard trailed upstairs after her sister, she snuck one hand behind her back to wave.

* * *

Lady Rosine and Lady Ilse had never gotten along. Their petty arguments were the stuff of legends among the staff: accusations of stolen earrings, salted tea, opened letters. Hubert’s father was summoned by one or the other to play peacemaker at least once a week. But in the wake of Lady Patricia’s banishment, the last two Imperial Consorts banded together. They knew that to survive meant they had to choose sides.

“If it’s money that would make the match, what about House Hrym?” Lady Ilse waved off Hubert to pour Anton’s tea herself. “Ludwig von Aegir once boasted to me that he manages the remainders of their treasury. All riches of the Empire go to the Emperor in the end, do they not? By that metric, the money is already yours to use, my dear.”

“A clever idea, but I’m afraid what really piques the Church’s interest in any matter is land,” Anton said. “By law, holy land cannot be taxed, and thus the Archbishop is always looking to acquire it.”

“Surely they wouldn’t want any part of Rusalka County,” Lady Rosine hurried to dismiss, “unless they can perform a miracle and farm our swamp.”

“And Merceus will already be divided between Bertholt and Baldwin,” added Lady Ilse. “How could it be divided again?”

Anton smiled. “Dear ladies, I’m not looking to interfere with your inheritances. What I ask from you is your help in persuading my father to surrender another: the eastern edge of Hevring County, closest to the Oghma Mountains.”

Rosine pursed her lips, pinching the handle of her teacup. “You mean…convince Ionius to surrender ports on the Great Bay?”

“Anton, you’re mad,” Ilse laughed, a hint of nervousness underneath it. “Those are the pride of his life! Saints only know how many times he’s bragged about rebuilding them in his early years on the throne. He’d sooner surrender his own legs!”

“Yes, he did think me quite mad to suggest it. But you see my reasoning, do you not?” Anton gestured for Hubert to bring the map. It had been cut to show only the central portion of the country, the border just wide enough to include Merceus County on the opposite shore from Hevring. Looking at where the ports were marked, one couldn’t help but notice you could easily trade one side for the other. By the way Lady Ilse's eyes kept flicking between them, she certainly noticed. “Weighing the profits of the ports against their size, it would be only a small concession of our territory.” Anton raised his eyes to them. “Rather than giving up a larger one somewhere else.”

Rosine and Ilse exchanged a glance.

“…We’ll see what we can do.”

After they left, Hubert set to clearing the tea table, placing the dirty dishes on a tray to be collected outside the door. Anton remained in his chair, studying the map spread across his knees.

“Remind me, Hubert: how long have you been pledged to me?”

“Nearly twelve years now, Your Highness.“

“Twelve years,” Anton repeated in disbelief. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Eighteen, come spring.”

“Near your majority! Would you be ready to take your inheritance and step into your father’s shoes by spring?”

Hubert managed a close-lipped smile. “I pray not, my lord. Long may he live.”

He could feel Anton’s eyes on him as he stacked the used teacups and plates. When he reached for the teapot, though, Anton stopped him.

“Sit down, Hubert,” he said. “You haven’t served yourself yet.”

Hubert paused, hand still hovering over the pot. “Thank you, but—”

“I insist.” Anton nodded to Lady Rosine’s empty chair. “Sit.”

Slowly, Hubert retracted his arm. He sat.

Anton took the teapot himself and refilled his own cup. He neglected any sugar or cream, sipping straight from the rim. His eyes never left Hubert.

“In the old days,” Anton said, “before Adrestia invented so many meaningless ceremonies to even wipe the Emperor’s ass, apprentices made two pledges to their masters. The first when they entered the house and began to learn their trade. The second when they reached their majority and left, ready to make their own way in the world. Back then, the second pledge was just as important as the first, if not moreso. It was a vow from the apprentice to uphold the honor of their master’s teachings and reputation. It signified that they would always be loyal to those who came before them, even after becoming a master themselves.”

“Are you saying you’d like to revive that tradition?” Hubert filled a spare cup for himself. He added sugar not for taste, but for an excuse to fiddle with the spoon. “I’d be proud to make a second pledge to you, Your Highness, if you wish.”

“No. In truth, I think pledges are quite useless.” Anton set his cup back on its saucer with a sharp _click._ “Anyone can recite vows before witnesses, whether they mean them or not. To prove one’s loyalty, there should be more than words exchanged. Do you agree?”

“It’s a very reasonable claim.” Hubert wondered how diplomatic he could be without giving an outright, _Yes, obviously. Only children and fools expect people to always keep their word._ “Then you must have some idea of how you’d like me to prove myself.”

“That’s just the thing.” Anton’s smile didn’t reach his grey eyes. “I don’t think I should be the one to decide.”

Hubert had stirred as much as he could stir. When he drank, the tea had lost most of its heat. It slipped down his throat with a lukewarm, unpleasantly earthy taste, as though he were lapping from a puddle that sat in the sun.

“After almost twelve years, I think we can be honest with one another, can’t we?” Anton leaned back in his chair. “You’re an investment, Hubert. I only get as much out of you as I see fit to put in. You’ve been trained to fit your father’s mould and you’ve grown into it well. If he were to up and die tomorrow morning, I have no doubt you could carry on through the day as though it were part of the schedule. You’d make a perfect minister for any emperor—for even my father.

“But I will not be like any emperor who has come before. I will need someone whose skills and tact outmatch the old Marquis Vestra. Whose loyalty would put the most devoted soldier’s to shame. And someone capable of completing my work, no matter how daunting the task.”

Hubert looked down at his cup. The remains of the leaves settled in a brown lump at the bottom.

“If we’re being honest with each other, Your Highness,” he said slowly, “I don’t know if I’m worth the investment.”

“Oh, but you are, and I’ll tell you why.” Anton’s smile rose to his eyes this time, but there was no warmth in it—just heat. Hunger. “Because we’re alike, Hubert. We’re men carved from our own ambitions. We long to step out from the shadows. We know what it’s like to live at the bottom, aching for the sky.”

He rose suddenly, rounding the table before Hubert could leave his chair. He leaned down and placed both of his hands on Hubert’s shoulders, squeezing firmly. Like the Emperor, Anton wasn’t a tall man, but he was broad, still muscled even years after his academy training. He didn’t need to apply much pressure to make his strength known.

“I will give you the chance to prove yourself, but the manner and means of the act shall be yours to determine,” he said. “If I deem your pledge worthy, I’ll make you a master in your own right. I’ll ensure you’re rewarded with the power such loyalty deserves.” Anton straightened up, releasing him. “And in the meantime, I’ll continue to hone my investment. You displayed a talent years ago that I haven’t forgotten.” He chuckled. “What did you release on poor Monica back then? Mire?”

“Miasma,” Hubert said, and the moment it left his mouth, he knew by the pleased expression on Anton’s face that he’d proven the earlier point: _men_ _carved from our own ambitions._ A retainer who believed himself truly unworthy wouldn’t have gone hunting through banned books, looking for its name.

“Miasma,” Anton repeated. The hunger in his eyes was bottomless—like looking into the mouth of a cave. “Once I arrange a better teacher for you, it will be the simplest spell you know.”

* * *

After more than a year across the sea, the remaining forces sent to bring Brigid and Dagda to heel sailed back into Enbarr Harbor with their swords brandished high. Dagda reaped what they’d sown, they proclaimed, every Adrestian life avenged tenfold. As for Brigid, King Mahon displayed far more wisdom than the Dagdan warlords: when Lord Gerth arrived on his shore, it was said the king knelt in the sand and begged they bring a portrait of the Emperor for him to kiss, since His Majesty’s own feet weren’t available.

 _He’s agreed to every term put before him,_ Ferdinand wrote in the margins of Duke Aegir’s copied notes. _Lord Gerth reports he even asked for flags, so his ships can fly the twin-headed eagle to show they all belong to the Empire again. He also begged to send a crew to Nuvelle to retrieve the body of his son, but Lord Bergliez says it’s too suspicious and we shouldn’t grant such privileges so soon. Honestly, I think Lord Bergliez is just too proud of killing King Neary. King Mahon’s request doesn’t sound suspicious to me—just sad._

Hubert pitied Ferdinand when he got letters like these, because it was clear that staying so aware of national affairs clearly tested Ferdinand’s optimism. Sometimes he wondered if he should just ask to close their original deal and exchange ordinary letters, like true friends did. Then Hubert remembered that would mean he’d have to write such letters—write about books he was reading, idle gossip he heard, and Goddess forbid, how he spent a holiday—and decided he’d keep up the arrangement so long as Ferdinand did. It was useful, after all, even if it did test his ability to gracefully translate, _“I’m sorry that you’re late in discovering your father’s decades of misappropriated funds. Though you may be sorely tempted, please do not confront him on the subject and inadvertently encourage him to better hide them.”_

Maybe that would meet Anton’s challenge: delivering Duke Aegir to the throne room, tarred and feathered with all the receipts he’d forged back before Hubert was even born. Then again, since Duke Aegir had taken to voting yes on whatever Anton put before the Council, maybe it wouldn’t be so appreciated.

“Clement says they’re finally letting Anton make a betrothal.” Hubert was shaken from his thoughts as Edelgard spoke up. He turned his head to look at her, lying in the grass beside him. This time, he’d been the one who needed to rest first—a particularly strong counterattack that sent him rolling down the garden hill had made him queasy. Edelgard wasn’t flushed at all, even though she’d used her Crest half a dozen times in quick succession. After a whole summer of sparring outside, she’d even earned freckles on her nose. “But I thought he asked for that years ago. Have they really debated over the girl for so long?”

“She’s from a foreign family,” Hubert worded carefully. “The Council of Ministers has only finalized their terms. The negotiations will take a while yet before it’s a real betrothal.”

“A foreign family? Faersh? Leicesten?” Edelgard leaned up on one elbow, watching his face for tells. “Further? Not from the east, surely? Or Sreng?”

Hubert shrugged. “If the family says yes, you’ll find out.”

Edelgard huffed, lying back down as she complained, “You’re the worst secret-keeper in the world, Hubert, because you actually keep all your secrets.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my lady.”

“Oh yes, you sound _so_ sorry.” The moment he grinned she elbowed him without even turning her head, as though she could sense it coming.

He watched as she reached to her other side to pluck a piece of grass, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. After a moment of silence, he was going to suggest they try another round—far away from the risks of the hill—when Edelgard said, “Did you know, my mother and father never negotiated, or even courted.”

Immediately, Hubert felt queasy again.

“Love at first sight, Father said.” Edelgard bent the grass into a circle, trying to knot the ends. “‘The moment I looked at her, I drowned in her eyes.’ It was only two days before he ordered her moved to Enbarr. Everyone was furious about it. House Arundel was a backwater family then, and Lady Rosine was still recovering from Clement’s birth. The consorts thought that titling my mother so quickly was an insult. Until the Empress took a liking to her, my mother worried she’d always have to walk ten paces behind the rest of them.

“But she didn’t have to worry about that for long.” With a snap, Edelgard broke the circle in two. “Uncle Volkhard always finished the story with, ‘And once you were born, El, Patricia’s soft heart is the only reason she didn’t make _them_ walk ten paces behind _us.’”_

Hubert worked his jaw, trying to think of how to reply. He was saved from the trouble, though, when Edelgard asked, “What about yours?”

“About mine?”

“Your mother.” This time, Edelgard chose a clover, spinning it so that the leaves blurred into one. “I’ve never known her.”

“Nor I, really.” His throat was strangely dry. “Sweating sickness. I was two.”

Edelgard’s elbow brushed him again, but not to reproach any tease. “Does your father ever mention her?”

“Not since I was very young, and only if I asked first. He kept her chest of dowry linens, though.” He watched the clover slow to a stop, each leaf distinct once more. “I suppose that counts for something.”

They put in only fifteen more minutes before ending early, neither clearly feeling up to sparring. When they were halfway back to the palace proper, Edelgard suddenly stopped and frantically turned in a circle, staring at her feet.

“I think I dropped a paintbrush,” she lamented, looking back the way they came.

“We’d never find it, my lady,” Hubert refused. “And it’d take too long to double back.” When she stalled, kicking some rocks as though it might be hiding under one, he sighed. “I’ll ask the gardeners to keep an eye out. Come on.”

“Will you? Or are you just trying to get me to hurry?”

“Both can be true.”

“Hubert!“

“Lady Edelgard.”

Edelgard finally gave up and began walking again, clearly trying to outpace him. He gave her the courtesy of staying a step or two ahead, trying to act as though it wasn’t easy to keep up.

But right before they reached the entryway, before they had to put on their show for everyone else, she jerked to a stop, throwing out her arm to keep Hubert from going forward. Her other hand was clutching the handle of her paintbox much tighter than necessary.

“I know one brush doesn’t matter. I know. Don’t trouble the gardeners—I don’t really care if it turns up or not.” She dropped her arm. “It’s just losing things. That’s what upsets me.”

Hubert thought of the Arundel apartments. How unlike the other locked consorts’ rooms, they sat fully empty, stripped of even their wallpaper.

That evening, he moved his mother’s dowry trunk into his own room. Hubert waited, but if his father noticed, he never said a word.

* * *

The Archbishop’s answer was no.

Not even her own answer, technically: the parchment was stamped with the seal of St. Seiros, direct from her ring, but the letter was written and signed by the hand of someone called Seteth. Seteth was very good with a pen, Hubert noted. Not a smudge to be seen.

Anton snatched the letter from the table again, seemed to consider tearing it into two, but after wrinkling it a moment only slapped it back down.

“Read it again,” he seethed, shoving it back towards Hubert’s father.

_“Her Holiness is honored by the offerings Adrestia has made. To dedicate land in the name of Our Holy Mother Church is but the greatest show of faith. But to break the vows of a sister devoted to the Goddess, no bribe of land or coin will suffice. Therefore we cannot release Sitri on the grounds of the proposed match. We encourage the Prince Regent to seek the hand of another, and on their union, will send our sincere blessings. May you walk ever in the path of the Fell Star. Seteth, Chief Secretary to the Archbishop of the Central Church.”_

“‘No bribe of land or coin will suffice,’” Duke Aegir scoffed. “What scruples! As though the late Duke of Myrddin didn’t buy a whole stretch of the Alliance’s border from Archbishop Themis. Lady Rhea must imagine herself a holy hermit, preaching from a cave.”

The four of them lapsed into silence as Anton paced. Hubert looked at the letter’s fine gilt border, the crisp lines of Seteth’s pen, and wondered if the Archbishop really wasn’t interested in riches—maybe she fancied she had enough. The only portrait he’d ever seen of her hung in the cathedral, framed in bronze, and would be over thirty years out of date by now. Maybe age had made her more frugal.

“Have we thought of stealing her?” Duke Aegir wiped his forehead with a garishly embroidered handkerchief. “You have your contacts in the monastery, don’t you, Your Highness? Send someone in at night and get her. It’s only a day’s ride to get back to civilization.”

“And only a day’s ride for the Knights of Seiros to catch up,” Hubert's father argued. “Don’t lose the point, Ludwig: the Church must _give_ the Crest to us. To steal it would only make us heathens and thieves in the eyes of the north. The last thing we need after the mess with Dagda is another conflict on our own soil.”

“A short conflict, if we wield the Crest of Flames,” Duek Aegir grunted.

Anton stopped suddenly, switching direction.

“How much land, exactly, did the Duke of Myrddin buy?” he asked.

Duke Aegir and his father hesitated, unsure, but Hubert had the answer at hand: “Near fifty miles extending east of the Oghma Mountains, my lord.”

“For what purpose?”

“Silver mining. In addition to the purchase price, he gave Archbishop Themis a share of the first ten years of profits.”

“I see.” Anton rubbed his chin for a moment. Then he turned back to Hubert’s father and ordered, “Extend the offer. Fifty miles from the southern reach of the mountains to the Great Bay, and the same ports included as before. Then add Hyrm County.”

“Hyrm County?” Duke Aegir’s forehead looked damp again.

“You’ve said for years that it’s taxing to manage two counties, haven’t you, Ludwig?” Anton’s smile had no sympathy in it. “Now you pass up the opportunity to have your burden relieved?”

“I—it has not been so—it’s just a sizable county, Your Highness. A significant concession.”

“And it comes with the risk of Almyran raids on the coast, Your Highness,” Hubert’s father cautioned.

“But the benefits of Almyran merchants, too.” Anton snatched up the letter again, his eyes scanning the lines. “Make no mistake, gentlemen: I doubt Lady Rhea will fold for Hyrm County. But she might consider it, and that’s what we need. To help her temptation along.” This time, he took the pages between his hands and tore them in a long, slow movement, severing Seteth’s neat letters in half. “Everyone has a price. We just have to find the one the Archbishop’s looking for.”

* * *

Eighteen didn’t feel so grand an age, even months after Hubert reached it. He still lived in the same tiny bedroom in his father’s apartments, still wore the same black clothes, did the same chores. He still had no earthly idea of how to prove his loyalty to Anton.

But Anton kept his promise. In fall, the lessons began.

His teacher was a sorceress, a woman of at least sixty with a slight hunch starting to curve her back. She told Hubert to call her ‘Master Periandra’ and began their first lesson with no other fanfare. Not that he expected any—tomes of dark magic were banned across the continent and practitioners could still be chased from more zealous backwoods towns. It was impressive that Periandra had lived long enough for her back to hunch.

“It’s clear you’re self-taught,” she growled at his first attempts. “You still shape your magic around your emotions, like children do. Anger works well enough to manifest fire, but what if you need fire when you’re not angry? Stop waiting to feel the energies before you cast. Don’t negotiate with dark magic, command it.”

Hubert flushed at being likened to a child. He tried to assert command over his spells, but it felt unpleasant, like summoning a dog only to kick it. And stop negotiating? She may as well have ordered him to stop blinking: he could try, but he was bound to do it again, sooner or later.

In bouts, though, Master Periandra treated him as an adult. Every time she pummeled him to his knees, she still expected that he’d show up with the same vigor—if not more—the following day. Still shaky with faith spells, Hubert began stockpiling vulneraries bought off the guards to deal with the worst pains. Sometimes, as he dragged his aching body out of bed, he wondered if his teacher was really an assassin who liked to do her work slowly.

His ears were still ringing from banshee blasts when he returned to his father’s office late one morning, only to find all of the other clerks clustered outside.

“Master Vestra, there you are!” Ansel’s face lit up with relief upon spotting him. “Your father’s still meeting the Treasurer and we have, uh, a household matter that needs your attention.”

“It’s _not_ a household matter! It’s urgent!”

The cluster moved to make room for Hubert, revealing a furious Edelgard in the center.

“Hubert,” she barked, still glaring at the clerks in her way, “tell them to let me in!”

“Lord Vestra is never disturbed when he’s with the Treasurer, Lady Edelgard,” Edmund insisted, still blocking the door. “We’ll fetch you when he’s finished, like we’ve said. In the meantime, Master Vestra can help you.”

“No, he can’t.” She whirled around to face Hubert. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I need to see your father, now.”

Hubert studied her expression. Her distress was no act.

“Wait here,” he ordered the clerks. “My lady, if you’d follow me?”

He ushered her into the deserted office. The door to his father’s inner chamber was closed, and the raspy voice of the Treasurer could be heard behind it. Hubert took Edelgard by the elbow and led her to the opposite corner of the room, pressing a finger to his lips: _Don’t let them hear._

“What’s the matter?”

“My father’s in danger,” she whispered.

The Treasurer wasn’t pleased to be interrupted and dismissed, but protocol still required him to bow to Edelgard as he shuffled through the door. Hubert father’s had to step out from his podium to bow too, but the moment Hubert locked the door, Edelgard didn’t wait for him to straighten up before she blurt out,

“Gotfrid, my father was attacked.”

“Attacked, my lady?” His father’s eyebrows rose. “By whom?”

“I only saw them leaving. They wore masks and alchemists’ hoods. I tried to waylay them, but they warped out. I only managed to grab hold of this.” Edelgard opened one of her fists and hurried forward to place the object in his father’s hand: a small glass vial filled with red liquid.

Hubert felt a chill run down his spine when he realized what it was.

“They slashed his arms and legs, even his feet.” Edelgard’s voice shook. “They closed them with some spell, but I could still see the marks fading. And the masks—Gotfrid, they looked how my uncle always described the people who attacked—”

“Lady Edelgard,” his father chuckled, “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. His Majesty’s in no danger. Those were doctors you saw, not alchemists.”

“Doctors?” Edelgard looked at his father as though he’d gone mad. “Doctors treat disease, Gotfrid, and healers close wounds! Neither of them cut men open again!”

“Not in Fódlan, no. The Church denounces it as desecration of the body.” His father held up the vial to the light, turning the blood ruby red. “But the medical traditions of other lands are not so confined. Why, in Morfis, they even remove the organs of the dead in order to better study the unseen effects of disease.” He offered the vial back to Edelgard. “That’s where these experts have come from. They’ve been hired to try a new treatment with your father to see if it improves his condition, and it requires samples of his blood. His Majesty himself approved of it.”

“His Majesty was half-delirious!” Edelgard snapped. “He hardly knew who I was, let alone what’d been done to him! And if he agreed to it, why was he forced to bear it alone? Why didn’t he send for me to watch him, or for his consorts? Why didn’t he send for _you?”_

His father’s reassuring smile turned pitying. “Perhaps, my lady, he hoped to spare you this exact ordeal. And he knows well that I meet with the Treasurer this same time every month—” he glanced at Hubert, “—and require no disturbances.” Realizing that Edelgard wouldn’t take the vial back, his father set it on the ledge of his podium, as though the Emperor’s blood was as commonplace as a quill or reading glass. “Now, if this is all you came to see me about…”

Hubert had seen Edelgard angry before. But he’d never seen her like this. The look that came over her face would’ve made the clerks not only obey her, but kneel.

“If it’s outlawed by the Church, who found this treatment for him?” she asked. “You? The Prime Minister?” She almost spat the words, “The Prince Regent?”

His father was no longer smiling.

“Again, my lady, I apologize that you were ill-informed. If your father asks for your presence next time, I assure you, you’ll be summoned. Otherwise, his treatment will continue as ordered.” He gestured to the bookshelves. “If it would put you at ease, I’ll even show you where he stamped his seal.”

Edelgard was silent for a moment. Her hands clenched fistfuls of her skirt.

“I know I have little power compared to you, Gotfrid,” she said. “But don’t forget who I am.” She stepped forward. She had to look up in order to meet his father’s eyes, but he was the one who backed away as she reached over to snatch the vial back. “You may try, but you won’t scare me. And unlike the others, you won’t be able to shuffle the precious Crest of Seiros back to her own county with a bribe.”

She didn’t wait for them to bow before she turned on her heel and marched out. The door of the outer office slammed like a crack of thunder.

* * *

Hubert called the clerks back in, but they’d no sooner settled back at their desks when his father opened his office door and gestured him in with a silent wave. Hubert tried to keep his heart rate slow, ‘mastered’ like Master Periandra insisted, as he shut the door behind him.

“Sever your attachment,” his father said.

Hubert had thought that by now, he’d heard every possible lecture his father could give. He was so thrown by the novelty of this one that the words had no meaning at first.

“My…” Slowly, it came together. “My attachment? To Lady Edelgard? Father, I don’t—”

“Do not dare play stupid,” his father growled. “Did you think I wouldn’t know? Do you think I don’t know everything that goes on in this place?”

He reached into his coat pocket, wrestled with the lining. When he freed the object, he slapped it so hard against his podium that it flew from his hand, falling to the floor. Edelgard’s lost paintbrush rolled to a stop against Hubert’s shoe.

“I’ll admit my own fault in the matter,” his father continued. “I allowed it to continue for years, didn’t interfere. I was pleased, even, to see you win over a valuable ally. But now it’s gone too far. You’ve forgotten your pledge: _Empire and Empire alone.”_

Hubert could feel acid climbing up the back of his throat, choking him as he insisted, “I haven’t forgotten! You taught me yourself that to serve the Imperial Household is to serve everyone in it: ‘from the statesmen to the stablehands.’ Being close to Lady Edelgard hasn’t made me disloyal to Prince Anton.”

“Hasn’t it?” His father rounded the podium, a predator stalking cornered prey. “When Patricia was brought before me for questioning, she knew that she was finished, bound for the executioner’s block. She was a clever woman: she accepted the deal she was offered to save her own life and her daughter’s reputation. But she wasn’t without spite.” He moved toward Hubert with slow, dangerous steps. “I thought she was lying at first. Surely, my own son would know better than to throw himself into the arms of deserters. But when put to the test, she didn’t recant.

“I told no one of your treachery. I protected you. You were young, I told myself. You were influenced, swayed by Arundel’s silver tongue.” His father’s finger struck like a spear against his collarbone. “But you’re not young anymore, Hubert. You’re a man, and I've seen enough to know where your loyalty lies.”

Hubert said nothing. His mouth tasted sour.

“You will realign yourself.” His father didn’t need to raise his voice to issue the command. “You will not speak to Lady Edelgard unless in public. You will bring another servant with you when summoned directly. If she asks for your counsel, you will refer her to me.” He pressed his finger harder, stabbing the center of Hubert’s chest. “I have no power to remove you from Prince Antonius’ service if he doesn’t wish it, and like a fool, he clearly does. But any breach of etiquette and I’ll make that brat’s life here so difficult that she will _beg_ to be sent away. Then the moment she’s of age, I will marry her off to the prince of the furthest wasteland on the map.”

Finally, he stepped back.

“Now. Make your pledge.”

It hurt, but Hubert swallowed.

“I accept the appointment of Minister of the Imperial Household,” he said, barely above a whisper, “upon the ascension of His Imperial Highness, Antonius von Hresvelg, Prince Regent. I pledge to serve the Empire, and the Empire alone, in the Goddess’ name. Until death.”

“Until death,” his father repeated. “Now get out, and fulfill it.”

* * *

He sent the note with Stanza—a fully-fledged cook now, and one of the few people he was certain weren’t tasked to watch him.

> _I’ve been thinking about Kyphon and the Sword of Moralta, and I’ve changed my mind. You outrank the inkwell.  
> _ _  
> Do not look for me anymore._

The next time he saw her, he could feel Edelgard’s confusion. As they passed each other, her eyes pinned on him, begging for some sign, some answer.

Hubert didn’t give any. He was a shadow in the corner. He was a piece of furniture.

Edelgard was stubborn, but everyone had their limits. After a few months of keeping his distance, her gaze slipped past him entirely, just like everyone else’s.

He was well and truly invisible.

* * *

By the end of the year, the Emperor could no longer walk on his own.

By the end of the next, he could no longer stand.

* * *

**_13 Ethereal Moon 1179_ **

_Dear Master Vestra,_

_The other day I was cleaning through my desk in preparation for my move to the Garreg Mach Officers Academy this spring (surely you know of it! I won’t be so crass as to boast about being admitted, though I will say when I inquired after my score on the entrance exam, I was told there were very few who scored higher. I hope my fellow students will continue to apply themselves once we’re all at the Academy together, otherwise I’d be very disappointed to have no one to challenge me to advance my skills—but I digress). As I was organizing my letters, I realized that I hadn’t received any from you in quite some time!_

_Of course, I understand that your duties may have gotten in the way of our correspondence. I find myself under pressure to train as much as possible for life at the Academy, which I have heard can be grueling even at the best of times. However, if it was forgetfulness that stopped your pen, I find that insulting and unacceptable! How will you fulfill your future responsibilities if you can’t remember to write back to your future Prime Minister? Surely you can spare a few minutes to answer his inconsequential question on how you celebrated last St. Indech’s Day, or how will you manage hundreds of more pressing ones when you must manage the Imperial Household?_

_In short, this long silence is intolerable. I urge you to consider the honor of your position and of the Empire, and write me back post-haste (you may skip the St. Indech’s Day inquiry, though, as I forget what I did last year, and one should never hold others to expectations that oneself cannot meet). Note that by the first of the Great Tree Moon, everything must be sent to Garreg Mach in order to reach me._

_Despite your lapse in letters, I’d like to keep our friendship intact. But if you meant to hint that you’d rather not write to me again, I apologize for misunderstanding. I’ve not had much experience with such friendships as ours, and do not know the typical methods of starting or ending them._

_I impatiently (but eagerly!) await your response!_

_Best regards,_

_**Ferdinand von Aegir** _

✦ ✧ ✦

_**20 EM 1179** _

_Since my last letter, circumstances have changed. Significantly. But I haven’t forgotten nor neglected to write._

_This letter should’ve reached you directly from the hands of a courier called Girard. If it hasn’t, it’s been opened already and you may as well burn it now. But if it’s reached you safely, Girard has also handed you a satchel._

_Don’t let it out of your sight. It contains over five years of accounts from the Imperial Treasury._

_This last year, I’ve been keeping tabs on the spending of the Council of Ministers and of the individuals therein. I’ve found some discrepancies. I don’t know where the money’s been going, but I think it's important to find out. As my future Prime Minister, I have a feeling you’d agree._

_I have a favor to ask: could you double-check my additions? The person to whom I usually turn to is unavailable._

_Don’t write back until I send Girard again. Don’t trust any letter to me with anyone else._

_**HvV** _

_(I spent last St. Indech’s Day in church, like everyone else.)_

✦ ✧ ✦

_**4 Guardian Moon 1180** _

_Hubert,_

_I’ve double-checked. Your additions are correct._

_I’ve convinced my parents that I should accompany them to Enbarr later this month, to the Emperor’s ball for St. Seiros Day. It’ll be the last event I’m able to attend for some time, of course, before I go to the mountains these next three years._

_I told Girard to hurry, but by the time you receive this, it may be the day of the ball itself. I expect you’ll be there._

_Best regards,_

_**Ferdinand von Aegir** _

_(Yes, but the point is the sharing of the mundane experience! I’ll explain when I see you.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because 4+5 were originally one gargantuan beast, I actually have the next chapter almost ready to go, so expect it to arrive very soon!!
> 
> Short footnotes this time!
> 
> \- I leaned into the literal meaning of the ‘Mac-' surname being ‘son of-' to name Petra's dad Neary. I imagined Brigid culture not really having surnames and the ‘mac-' being adapted to fit Adrestian convention. So Petra is Petra Macneary and her father would've been Neary Macmahon. 
> 
> \- Thales and Solon are both names of Greek sages, so I adapted another—Periander—for Hubert’s dark magic instructor. 
> 
> \- Chapter 2 callbacks abound, so if you don’t remember the inkwell, I suggest flipping back there ;)
> 
> \- At last…the characters are at the ages of the start of the game…meaning I no longer have to construct old-time-ish child dialogue!! tho I admit I adore writing Edelgard and Hubert’s circular arguments more than anything. truly nothing better than a ship whose A support contains the heartfelt exchange “be honest with me or I’ll fucking kill u” “okay kill me then lmao” like wow lads…they’re in BIG love……


	5. Against Nature. St. Seiros Day 1180

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: 'Graphic depictions of violence' warning applies in this chapter, in addition to body horror and descriptions of emergency surgery.

Only magic could produce so many flowers in the dead of winter. The ballroom was as bright as a meadow in full bloom, thronged with great swaths of greenery. Tulips sprouted from table vases in every color imaginable. Over the entrance, a curling dragon had been constructed from the heads of lilies: the Immaculate One ushering each guest inside beneath her petaled wings. Lady Ilse slapped away Lord Bertholt’s hand before he could pluck one, making Lord Baldwin snicker.

Ferdinand shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe those are the twins. I still picture them as babies!”

“I wish they still were,” Hubert grunted. “Babies are much easier to wrangle than twelve-year-old boys.”

The herald struck his staff against the floor to announce, _“The Imperial Consort Rosine von Rusalka, the Lady Isengard von Hresvelg, and the Lord Clement von Hresvelg.”_

Hubert and Ferdinand watched as the three entered the ballroom and stopped to bow to Anton. Without an Emperor or Empress able to attend, he was alone in the receiving line. Between guests, Hubert glimpsed his smile slip into a scowl of frustration. No wonder: though the ballroom was filling fast, the line of waiting nobles was still quite long. The herald’s constant announcements were starting to blend in with the din.

“So,” Ferdinand said, lowering his voice. “Are the consorts involved?”

“I doubt it. Lady Rosine and Lady Ilse aren’t the most cunning, but they’re far from foolish. They’re not going to fold their cards as early as Lady Keterlyn did.” Hubert watched Lady Isengard be waylaid by a group of hovering gentlemen already hoping to secure her for a dance. “And Rosine doesn’t have to stall much longer. Her children can be easily settled within the next few years.”

The herald struck his staff again. _“The Imperial Consort Ilse von Merceus, the Lord Baldwin von Hresvelg, and the Lord Bertholt von Hresvelg.”_

“Who are the main players, then?”

Hubert found them easily as he glanced around the room. By now he had a hunter’s instinct for each man, confident he could spot them even in the thickest woods.

“Bergliez. Hevring. Varley. Gerth. My father. Yours.” He glanced back to the reception line. “And the Prince Regent.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Hubert murmured, “And that doesn’t count the others in the shadows.”

“Such as?”

“They’ve been careful not to keep records. If they’re paid by the Prince, I’ve not found the evidence.” He watched the twins race off to the banquet table. “But they’re not hard to find: just look for mages. I’ve never heard of a prince who’s employed more mages than guards.”

“And you’re certain that they’re in opposition to the Emperor,” Ferdinand insisted. “The bargaining for the Crest of Flames, the money going missing—this isn’t in accordance with His Majesty’s will?”

“His Majesty has no will anymore but to live. The longer this goes on, even that may fail him.” Hubert rolled his empty wine glass between his fingers. “There’s something they need him alive for. Otherwise we wouldn’t still be in a regency.”

“No.” Ferdinand glanced at Anton with apprehension. “I’ve studied the laws. When there’s a regency, a prince doesn’t need his father to die to become Emperor. He only needs to produce an heir.”

_“The Lady Edelgard von Hresvelg.”_

Hubert thought he’d cut out the habit, but apparently the roots remained. At the sound of her name, he turned his head immediately. The conversation slipped through his fingers and flopped to the floor as he watched Edelgard make her appearance.

Her gown was lavender, cut to hug the peaks of her slim shoulders and show off the smooth expanse of her collarbone. As she approached Anton, her pearl earrings fluttered against her neck. Her hair was pinned back and set with a few of the miraculous off-season flowers. Half of Isengard’s admirers were staring too, and by the looks on their faces, already changing allegiances.

For a moment Hubert entered a dream: one where Edelgard would look up, through the crowd, and she’d see him. She’d smile. All would be as it were.

He was shaken back to reality when Ferdinand choked on his drink.

 _“That’s_ Lady Edelgard?” he coughed.

Hubert took his glass away and slapped a napkin into his hands. “No, it’s the long-lost Duchess Riegan.”

“Very funny,” Ferdinand mumbled, hastily wiping his wine-splattered chin and collar. “She, ah, looks how I remember her mother. The Arundel eyes. The hair.” He coughed again into the napkin, his face red, as Edelgard rose from her curtsy. There was no hesitation as she kissed Anton’s ring. “Saints, it’s been so long since I last saw her. The portrait I’ve got is very outdated.”

Hubert frowned at him. “Portrait?”

Ferdinand fumbled to fold the napkin, his cheeks still flushed.

“Marriage candidates. My father’s been collecting them for years.” Mistaking the look on Hubert’s face, he hurriedly added, “But I’ve refused them all! I won’t marry, I told him, until I’ve made my mark on the world. Certainly not until I’ve graduated from the Officers Academy.” He clapped a hand on Hubert’s shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon my duty and vanish into the countryside just yet.”

Hubert let Ferdinand squeeze him for a moment before he pried himself out of his grasp. “Well. Good on you,” he intoned. “As I was saying, we have to be prepared for His Majesty’s death anyway. I doubt the ‘treatments’ he receives will wait for an heir, not with the Church still dragging its feet.”

“Maybe the Archbishop’s waiting until they’re desperate enough to offer the entire country, coast to coast.”

_“Her Royal Highness Petra, Crown Princess of Brigid.”_

The subsequent introduction of Lord Gerth and his wife was swallowed by unhushed whispers that broke out at the sight of the young princess. Though her silk dress was made in the Adrestian style, the sleeves had been clearly ripped from their seams. The whole length of her bare, brown arms were on shameless display. When she reached Anton, she neither bowed nor curtsied, but dipped her head at the chin, as only kings greeted fellow kings.

 _“Lahat kayo mga ahas,”_ she said loud enough to be heard from the crowd. “Greeting to you and Adrestia from my homeland.”

Judging by the speed at which Lord Gerth recomposed his face, Hubert was willing to bet she hadn’t said, ‘Good evening.’

“Your Royal Highness,” Anton replied. “I’m glad to welcome you back to Enbarr. I hope that your guardians—” he shot a brief glare at Lord Gerth, “—will ensure you see the best of it before you leave us for Garreg Mach.”

“I have doubt they will,” the princess responded. She didn’t even nod again before walking away at a clip, leaving the furious von Gerth couple to hustle after her.

Ferdinand raised his eyebrows as he watched her go. “She’ll make an interesting classmate, to say the least.”

Then he paused and looked down into his glass, contemplative.

“Hubert, I’m worried. They’ve already taken as much power as they can get, so what’s all this leading to? There’s so much we don’t know, and once I leave, I won’t be able to keep an eye on my father anymore. How will you manage all of this on your own?”

Hubert shrugged. “The ‘how’ doesn’t matter. I will.”

“But if something happens—if they suspect you’re not on their side, who do you have to turn to?”

“ _His Eminence Seteth, Chief Secretary to the Archbishop of the Central Church.”_

Recognition flared like lightning through Hubert’s veins.

“I have to go.” He shoved his glass into Ferdinand’s other hand. “I have to follow him.”

“What?” Ferdinand sputtered. “Who? Why?”

“Seteth. He’s the one who’s responded to every proposal.” Hubert tracked Seteth as he greeted Anton stiffly. “He must be here on behalf of the Archbishop. If I can get him alone, maybe I get more information.”

Ferdinand’s face was reddening again, but this time with frustration. “Hubert, if he works for the Archbishop, then he has escorts somewhere. The Knights of Seiros always stab first and ask questions later.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t watch me, you’ll draw attention,” Hubert ordered. “Just enjoy the night.” He hesitated before adding, “In fact, ask Lady Edelgard to dance. She likes the volta. See if you can keep up with her.”

“T-the volta?” Ferdinand stammered, looking frightened at the very thought. “Hubert, don’t you dare run off!”

Hubert dared.

* * *

Ferdinand was right: Seteth did bring an escort. She tailed behind him at a leisurely distance, but by the way she held her glass low, she was always thinking of the sword at her hip. Her white tabard was embroidered with the gryphon and star of the Knights of Seiros. She stayed focused on her charge, but Hubert witnessed a good handful of ladies pass their eyes over her broad back and square shoulders.

The plan came to him quickly.

He waited until Seteth was snared into a longer conversation, leaving his knight to meander on the periphery. When she passed close to Lady Jutta von Pietsch, Hubert directed the smallest gust of wind at her foot.

The knight tripped. The crowd scrambled to get out of range as she knocked Lady Jutta’s wine out of her hand and nearly knocked Jutta herself flat to the ground.

 _“Shit,”_ the knight hissed, managing to catch her by the arms at the last moment. “My lady, I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?”

“No, no! Not at all!” Lady Jutta’s face was as pink as her gown. The knight set her back on her feet, but Jutta didn’t seem inclined to leave her arms. “Oh, your front is soaked! I’m sorry, let me…”

Seteth, oblivious, walked on with only Hubert on his tail.

Or so Hubert thought. Like the paranoid knight, his hand went right to his knife when Monica emerged from the crowd.

She stopped Seteth with a hand on his arm, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Seteth didn’t look keen to be grabbed, but he nodded stiffly when she backed away. The two of them began making their way through the ballroom, headed for the plain doors at the most deserted corner.

For the servants’ passage.

Hubert counted to twenty before he followed.

When he stepped into the passage, he was relieved he didn’t run directly into Seteth and Monica, but the relief was quickly crushed by the fist of anxiety. There was no sign of which direction they’d taken.

Guessing that a clergyman wouldn’t go unnoticed in the kitchens, Hubert decided to pick the fork that led away from the more active palace center. After a few twists and turns, he found himself at a spiral staircase that wound both up and down. Hubert’s palms felt clammy under his gloves as he studied it. No matter which direction he chose, there’d be no place to hide.

He clutched his right arm again. _They can’t hurt you,_ he scolded himself, _they’ve put too much into their investment,_ and started to climb.

* * *

It was clear that the staircase was made from the oldest palace foundations. To ensure it couldn’t be rushed by invaders, it was a tight fit even for one. As he spiraled ever higher, Hubert fought off waves of nausea, bracing one hand on the wall in the hopes that the cold stone would help him feel grounded. When he reached a door at the top, he was so relieved he could’ve kissed it.

The passage let out into a darkened hall. When Hubert could recognize his surroundings, he realized he was on the top floor of the palace. Through the windows, he could see the sprawling city cascading down from the hill, the red roofs of Enbarr washed deep purple by the night. The nausea returned; Hubert clung to the more solid wall and vowed to look only straight ahead.

A thin, yellow crack of light beckoned him to a closed door.

He could practically hear Ferdinand mock him: _Who’s listening at keyholes now?_ But Hubert had wasted enough time getting there. He couldn’t afford to miss anything more.

Three voices, three men. One smooth and familiar: Anton. Another more raspy, much older, that he’d never heard before. The third strong, affronted, and not taking any pains to be discrete: undoubtedly Seteth.

“It’s a waste of everyone’s time,” he complained. “Lady Rhea would not even deign to read the last one. The next messenger I see in imperial red will be turned away at the gate!”

“Surely not, Your Eminence.” The old man tried a placating approach. “To cease communication between Enbarr and Garreg Mach would be a breach of our holy partnership. Adrestia is, after all, Seiros’ own nation. The two heads must share one body if the eagle wishes to fly.”

“A pretty metaphor, sir, but we no longer live in the days of Seiros and Wilhelm,” Seteth countered. “Where was Adrestia, for example, when the remaining rebels of the Southern Church sent militia into our mountains not twenty years ago?”

Anton cut in, “And where was the Central Church when Dagda landed on our shores?”

Hubert held his breath so as not to disturb the tense silence.

“Regardless,” Seteth finally ground out, “no matter where the Empire stands with the Church, Lady Rhea will not budge on this. This has become a personal matter to her. She cannot comprehend why a former student persists on vexing her so, and why an officer who often professed love for the monastery would wish to disturb the quiet life of a holy woman.”

“Has Lady Rhea spoken to Sitri herself?” Hubert could practically hear Anton’s smirk. “The last I heard, she was very much willing to disturb her life, if only to win the privilege of cutting her leash.” Footsteps creaked on the floor. “Do you not think it cruel, Seteth? To have your hand be the one that crushes hers, while yours is crushed under Rhea’s?”

“Your Highness,” the old man hissed.

“Is she like a pet to you all? Or do you consider her more of an artifact, to be kept under glass on a high shelf?”

_“My lord.”_

“Have you convinced yourself that because of her heavenly nature, she doesn’t crave human things—company, affection, freedom to choose—and is better off never knowing them? Have you never thought of her as a fellow being, someone’s daughter—”

Hubert almost fell backwards in his haste to get away from the door when it suddenly rattled on its hinges, scared by the loud _bang_ of bodies colliding against it. Forget the keyhole—he could hear Seteth’s voice loud and clear.

“And to think you’d grown up, Antonius von Hresvelg,” he growled. “The same haughty boy who walked through our halls, now strutting about Wilhelm's palace! I’ll say it once more in the hopes that you’ll finally learn something. Send another messenger, send another thousand, it won’t make any difference: unless you possess some gift that would appease the Goddess herself, you will never touch the Crest of Flames.”

Hubert acted on instinct. He threw himself through the door of the adjacent room right as the observatory’s slammed open. Seteth’s footsteps pounded down the hall, then the servants’ door slammed too. Hubert crouched in the shadow of the doorframe, heart pounding.

“I warned you.” The old man had moved into the hallway. His rattling voice shook with rage. “I warned you to keep. Your. Temper.”

“I warned _you_ to hide yourself well,” Anton snapped back. “He suspected you from the moment he walked in! I could see it in his eyes!”

“He suspected nothing! I’ve been away from that rat’s nest for weeks, and this face is new. Even the dragon herself wouldn’t know me! Now we’re even further from where we started and shorter on time! If it were not for your vanity, your love of meddling—”

The old man’s rant cut off with a gasp. Hubert felt a phantom pain around his own neck and almost pitied him.

“Be grateful I stopped your tongue there, Solon, before you gave me reason to cut it out.”

Another sound of a body falling. The old man’s coughs filled the hall.

“We’re not done. We will find something the bitch wants.” Footsteps again. “And then I will get what I deserve. Find a solution, Solon, before you get yours.”

The creak of the servants’ door. Another slam.

“Ha! And I thought you were one of the smart ones.”

Stupid. So stupid, Hubert thought, gripping his arm so tightly it hurt, to forget that just because you hear three voices, doesn’t mean there are only three people.

The old man fought another cough as he snarled, “I don’t want to hear your heckling, Kronya. I’ve dealt with enough imbeciles this evening.”

“It does look like your old face, though,” Monica—Kronya?—said. “Maybe you’ve gotten too comfortable in it. Lost the knack.”

There came a sound Hubert couldn’t place. It was a strange series of pops and cracks, with a low thrum underneath that made his skin prickle. A spell? One like nothing he’d ever encountered, at least. But just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

A new voice said, “I have _not_ lost the _knack.”_

Monica laughed. “You have no right to insult him, Solon, when you’re just as easily riled up.”

“Enough of your taunts. Here’s a useful task for you, for once: bring that pathetic clergyman back to me. Alive.”

“Alive’s no fun!” Monica whined. “And it won’t be easy—didn’t you see he’s a thrasher? Besides, you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“Trouble?” the new voice growled. “My trouble is that our watered-down Crest of Seiros is drying up before our eyes. Blood, I’m ordered, we need blood, but no one is willing to let me do what is necessary to take it! There are too many eyes on Cethleann. If we strike Cichol down tonight, we have at least a week’s delay before Garreg Mach knows he’s missing. You don’t know how much I can do with a week.”

“So? What do I get out of it?”

This new laugh was just as chilling as Monica’s. “The thrill of the chase, Kronya. I thought you loved nothing more.” The voice lowered, nearly seductive, to add, “When you catch him, too, you can have the first taste.”

That thrum again, a rush of air, and then a quick pop of pressure. A portal spell, one Hubert recognized from Master Periandra.

Silence once more.

“You can come out now, scarecrow. Unless you’d rather me come and get you.”

This time, Hubert didn’t choose to hold his breath. His lungs just decided not to.

“Don’t worry, you were perfectly quiet. They didn’t hear a thing!” Monica’s footsteps were uneven, meandering, getting closer. “But I didn’t need to. Your fear was so lovely, so strong, I could smell it from the stairs.”

Hubert unsheathed his knife. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of cowering.

As he stepped into the hallway, he saw Monica stop, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight that seeped through the windows. Her mouth twisted into a smile so wide it seemed to bend her face.

“I’m not like the old bastards,” she said, cracking her neck from side to side. “All the intrigue bores me. So I’ll be blunt: did you hear everything?”

Hubert said nothing.

“See everything?”

Again, he said nothing, but Monica’s smile stretched even wider.

“Oh, good!” She cracked her neck again, back and forth, but the sound was much louder this time. A low thrum crawled through Hubert’s ears. “It’s always fun to be someone’s first.”

Then she began to change.

The strange sounds Hubert heard didn’t belong to a spell: they were bones and joints, muscles and skin of a body changing into another. Monica’s arms and legs stretched longer with a sickening creak, her spine arched in and out of alignment one vertebrae at a time. Her face warped, features molding like thick clay, paling in color as they hardened once more. When the thrumming ceased, a different person stood before him: flame-haired, blue-skinned, with slit red eyes like a snake.

Hubert believed, now, in Lord Arundel’s demons.

“Ohhh, it feels nice to take that off,” Monica moaned, rolling her spiny shoulders. “It's such a pain to wear one skin for so long. Slows us down, dulls our senses.” She licked her thin lips with a forked tongue. “Dulls our magic too, for those stupid enough to rely on it.”

She grasped the iron handle from the scabbard at her hip. The dagger was like none Hubert had seen before. It bore a curved blade and an unusual sheen to the metal. Despite the length, Monica flipped it over the back of her hand with ease.

“I know you think badly of me, but I have a heart, scarecrow.” When she cocked her head, another bone cracked. “I always give the prey a favor, a little last present as a thank-you. But since we’re old friends, I think I’ll give you two.” She threw the dagger over her head, catching it easily in her other hand. “My first favor is to tell the truth. No, I’m not human. No, the real Monica von Ochs is long dead. Yes, I was lying to Solon back there.” She giggled. “I love the thrashers.

“Now, here’s your second favor.” Throwing the dagger one more time, she caught it and slipped it back in the scabbard. Then she stepped aside, giving him a clear path down the hall. “I’m going to give you a head start.”

For once, Hubert felt no urge to negotiate.

The city roofs blurred past, a distant, dark expanse looming outside, as he ran for the door.

* * *

The spiral staircase plunged beneath the palace, past the servants’ quarters, past the storerooms, all the way to the sewers. A stream ran underground there, shaped with ancient pipes to flow downhill into the many veins of Enbarr’s canals that branched all the way to the sea.

Hubert wrestled the grate off and stood at the edge, looking down at the rushing water. This was one of the larger pipes, so it was likely to spit him out eventually. Or otherwise drown him in the dark.

He held his breath and jumped.

The water was freezing, the shock of the cold cutting through him like knives. It was all Hubert could do to keep his head above the surface as the current carried him away. He could only navigate by the gut-dropping feeling that he was going downhill, towards the city proper. The slick ceramic tiles of the drain system soon became hard brick, snagging his gloves as he threw his arms against the walls to try slowing his progress.

The current finally let up as the drain flattened off into a narrow canal. Hubert’s teeth chattered as he swam to the ledge of a low walkway and heaved himself out of the water. For a moment he curled up where he lay, coughing up mouthfuls of brackish water. He rubbed his tattered palms together to conjure up the idea of friction, begging, _**Heat heat air light heat light please heat please**_ until the flame finally caught. He was so cold that the first spurt of warmth almost hurt.

He waved the reason fire slowly over himself until he could feel his feet again. Glancing up at the walls of the canal, he guessed he’d surfaced somewhere on the outskirts of the merchants’ center. The buildings that loomed on either side were trade houses, their tall, gallant windows all darkened and shuttered. It was unlikely anyone would be wandering here at this late hour when there were more lively places to be found in the city. It was unlikely anyone would be able to help.

Better that way, Hubert reasoned, rising to his feet. No one else would be caught up in his mess.

He didn’t have to wait long for another body to splash out of the drain. Monica swung herself over the ledge with her long arms. Soaking wet, she looked even less human than before. Her skin was as clammy as a corpse’s. Her red animal eyes glowed.

“Oh, scarecrow,” she sighed, almost lovingly. “I can’t wait to see you thrash.”

Hubert hardly heard her. His head was filled with whispers: friendly voices, deadly ones. Hungry ones.

 _ **We know what you want,**_ they said. _**What we want too. Let us work together. Let us devour.**_

He almost laughed. _Let’s just not die._

When their blades clashed, there were sparks.

It was like trying to fight a storm. Monica circled him, slashing whatever she hit, be it brick or cloth or skin. Whenever she moved in to strike, Hubert sent waves of dark fire strong enough to blow her back a dozen paces. He pummeled her with magic until the air itself was foggy with foul smoke. But then it cleared and she’d charge again, black blood dripping from her still-smiling mouth.

It was endless. Hubert’s soaked clothes stuck fast to his skin, the cold slowing his movements. His wet shoes had no traction. When Monica ducked under his arm and punched him backwards, he slipped. She caught him by the hair.

He cried out as she slammed his head against the bricks. The world went blinding white.

“Get up!” She spat more black blood as she sang, “Up, up, up! I’m not finished having fun!” She shook his head like a doll’s. Everything blurred when she dropped him at her feet and kicked at his chest until he rolled over. Hubert tried to push back up on his elbows and knees, clumsily crawling backwards. “One more, come on, you’ve got at least one more in you! Show off for me!”

Hubert blew his hair out of his eyes. His mouth tasted of drain water and blood. All around the canal the trade houses watched them, stalwart and solemn. He could imagine clerks and apprentices hurrying along the streets at dawn, going to unlock them for their masters. They’d be waylaid by the horrible sight of a mangled body in such a nice part of town—discarded like a chewed-up mouse left by a proud cat on a fine rug. Like Monica herself had told him years ago: there was no proper place to die.

And, Hubert realized, no proper way to fight.

“Alright,” he croaked, slowly getting to his feet. “I’ll show off. Here’s one I haven’t used before.”

Monica grinned, readying herself as he raised his free hand.

But Hubert didn’t aim at her. The spell was focused on himself, the rift opening under his own feet.

 _ **Move,**_ he commanded.

When he emerged from the portal behind her, he wasted no time in plunging the knife into Monica’s back.

She screamed with a furious yowl, flailing in his grip, but Hubert ignored the frantic slashes of her dagger as he pulled his knife out and drove it in again. Blood oozed from her clammy skin. As they struggled, he slipped on the wet brick again, but this time he barreled his weight into Monica, pinning her down as they fell.

He moved without thinking. He stabbed anywhere he saw flesh. When he could no longer raise his exhausted arm, he summoned mire and watched it burrow into the wounds. _**Devour, devour, devour.**_ It was all he could think, all he wanted.

Monica’s last words never left her slack mouth.

By the time the mire faded away, happy and sated, Hubert kicked over what was left. He sunk the knife in one final time, through the heart. He added the other dagger to be sure.

The shuttered windows were the only eyes that watched as he rolled the remains over the edge. Those red eyes were dull as the water lapped over the rotted face. He watched them slip away as the body sank out of sight.

The water stilled. The streets were silent. No one saw a man in a black coat slow his heavy, labored breathing before, with a wave of his hand, he vanished into the dark.

* * *

Hubert made it as far as the outer gates before he lost his stamina.

Warping was more exhausting than any other spell he knew. His first from the canal had taken him back to the base of the palace hill, then another brought him just outside the rear grounds. All gates were still open to let carriages in and out; the St. Seiros Day ball was still far from over. The guards watched his approach with wariness.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Kuhn,” Hubert called, cringing at the ragged sound of his voice. “Do I have to show you my keys?”

The lieutenant was quick to click his heels together and bow, his partner hurrying to follow suit.

“Of course not, Master Vestra.” But as Hubert came closer to the torches at the gate, Kuhn failed to stifle his shock as he looked him over. “What happened to y—?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Hubert said. “I was out wrapping up a matter of business.” He held Kuhn’s gaze. “To a man of your rank, Lieutenant, I don’t think I need mention that the Prince Regent would appreciate your discretion in mentioning such business.”

“N-no.” Kuhn bowed again. “Welcome back, Master Vestra.”

“My thanks. Have a pleasant night.” Hubert passed through.

As soon as he was out of sight, he clung to the iron fence posts in order to keep from collapsing. The winter wind was merciless as it wound through the slashes in his coat, biting at each and every one of Monica’s cuts. His left shoulder was the worst of them: that curved dagger had sliced through the side of his bicep, tearing through muscle. Even the slightest movement caused pain to shoot down the whole of his arm, and the torn sleeves of his shirt, doublet, and coat were stiff with blood. It would have to be dealt with, and quickly.

He made his way off the carriage drive to take the footpath that wound through the gardens. While the Imperial Guard might let him pass without further questions, there was no guarantee the servants would do the same, or worse: alert his father. His best bet to go unseen was to get as close to the palace as possible and warp directly inside once his strength returned. He headed westward with the goal of spotting his own window, to better aim.

Unlike the ballroom, the palace gardens were barren, washed of all color. The grey skeletons of trees loomed over him with branches like gnarled hands. Every part of him ached as Hubert trudged up the path, tracking the golden lights of the palace. _Just close enough,_ he urged his weary legs. Twigs snapped loudly under his feet, but Hubert didn’t bother to be more careful. The gardens weren’t patrolled if there were no nobles milling around them. No one else would want to be out in the cold at this time of night.

“Stop. Don’t move.”

A figure blocked the path. A long, narrow shape extended from their hand.

Hubert stopped.

“Good.” They moved slowly towards him, shadowed sword still held at the ready. The leaves hardly rustled as they moved—his newest attacker had a very light foot. “Now, state who you are and what you’re doing here. And if you charge me, you’ll meet your death.”

Hubert almost choked when he finally placed the voice.

“Lady Edelgard,” he sputtered, “it’s only me.”

A small glyph sparked a flame at the tip of the sword—no, just a stick—and threw her into relief. She was still in her evening gown and dance slippers. A guard’s short cloak was thrown over her shoulders to guard from the chill; clearly Hubert wasn’t the only one who could slip past the palace defenses. In yards of purple silk, flowers still tucked in her hair, she looked like she had leapt from the painted pages of a book: the maiden Spring sallying forth with torch aloft, come to banish haggard Winter from the land.

“Hubert?” Hubert quickly took a step back, out of the weak light. In the course of a second, he watched her emotions flicker from suspicion to relief to suspicion again. It was the first time he could remember her looking truly unhappy to see him. His heart sank with the very thought. “What are you doing here? Are you covered in…oil?”

He ignored the second question to fire back the first. “I might ask you the same. It’s not like you to leave a ball early.”

“Not like me?” Edelgard’s laugh was bitter. “If I had to spend one more minute in there, I would’ve broken a vase over the head of the next insufferable fop who opened his mouth. Ferdinand von Aegir almost had tulips stuffed down his throat.”

Hubert pushed aside his twinge of guilt. “But escape here?”

Edelgard gestured around them with the torch. The oak-lined path.

“I have to practice somewhere, don’t I?”

“Oh.” He looked back to the stick, still burning at one end. “So it _is_ a sword.”

Edelgard chewed at the inside of her cheek, and then seemed to come to some decision. With one smooth motion, she swung the stick over her head to extinguish the flame. When she brought it down, it sliced through another, larger glyph. Suddenly, Hubert found himself blocked by a wall of wind. There was no bite to it—not a combative spell, then—but it was effective enough to force him back a few paces. When it dissipated, it took a moment to find Edelgard again in the gloom.

“Who taught you reason magic?”

Edelgard lifted her chin. “Me.” She twirled the stick with another flourish. “I pulled most of it from books. I’m certainly no expert, but it’s nice to not need candles anymore.” Even in the dark, he could read her hard glare. “And it’s an easier defense to practice alone.”

Hubert was already in pain. Another cut shouldn’t hurt, and yet…

“I’ll leave you to your practice, then,” he said. “Goodnight, my lady.” He walked forward, passing her on the right to keep his wounded arm out of view.

“That’s it?” Just as he dreaded, Edelgard wasn’t done expressing her scorn. She started after him, her footsteps doubling his in order to follow. “What, did you use up your allotted words to say to me? In exchange for this conversation—the first in Goddess knows how long—should I expect you’ll be totally silent in my presence until next moon? Will you have to ration every ‘ _no, my lady’_ or does that count as only half a sentence?”

Hubert tried to lengthen his stride, but his body would only trade speed for balance. He lurched on a root he didn’t spot in the dark, just managing to land his other foot down before his face hit the dirt. It was enough of a delay for Edelgard to catch up, and before he could back away, she grabbed his left shoulder to stop him.

When he screamed, she immediately let go.

Hubert shook as he tried to get the pain under control. His arm was in agony. He curled it against his chest, hissing as he bent his elbow. He flinched again when Edelgard made another flame, the sudden light stinging his eyes. When he could focus, he found her right in front of him, examining him with a look of growing horror. When she looked down at the hand that grabbed him, the flame illuminated her glove, its palm smeared red.

“Hubert,” she said softly, as if trying not to spook an animal, “you never told me what you were doing here.”

He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“But—”

“My lady, _please,_ I cannot say.”

“Alright, that’s alright.” She dropped the stick and raised her empty hands, placating. “But let me help. Can I fetch someone to get you?” Before he could say so, she added, “Not your father, if you don’t want him.”

He shook his head again, backing away. “I can manage on my own. I just need to get inside.”

“How?” Edelgard demanded, still in slow pursuit as he kept stepping backwards. “If no one else, let me walk you myself.”

“No. My lady, I promise that I’m capable—”

His heel met another tree root. For a terrifying second Hubert felt himself lurch backwards, but a sudden force yanked him in the other direction. He couldn’t help but cry out again. The pain was nearly blinding.

But when his head cleared, he found he was still upright. Edelgard had caught him around the chest, having pulled him to fall toward her when his knees buckled. Hubert grabbed at her back, bearing more pain as he tried to get his legs in order and straighten up against her. They stumbled dangerously for a moment, like two drunkards dancing, until an equilibrium was reached.

“Tell me what your plan was, quickly.” When she judged they were balanced enough, Edelgard carefully shifted from his front to his right side. She wedged her shoulder under his to keep him bolstered by her smaller frame. “I won’t be able to lift you at all if you faint.”

Hubert finally relented and panted, “My bedchamber. I’ve got a kit with supplies to patch myself up. But I can’t take us both. The spell’s hard enough to cast on one, let alone two.”

“Of course you can.” Edelgard’s flimsy dancing shoes sank into the dirt as she took them further down the path, but she didn’t stumble. “Why would the difficulty stop you? You’re the most stubborn, hard-headed person I know. You live for challenges.” Somehow she managed to sound teasing even when grunting from strain. Her arm braced on his back squeezed his side lightly. “I bet you can do the spell, and perfectly. Go on. I promise to act very impressed.”

“Will you still act impressed if it backfires and splits us both in half?”

“Doubly so.”

Hubert’s laugh came out more as a hacking cough. He drew them to a stop and looked up at the palace beyond. From this distance, he could just make out his own darkened little window.

“Very well,” he said, closing his eyes. The whispers were faint at first, but they were there. “As my lady commands.”

* * *

As the portal flashed out, it illuminated an insecurity Hubert didn’t even know he had until they were standing in his bedchamber.

“Sorry. I don’t, uh, I don’t have company in here. And obviously I don’t want the maids finding things they shouldn’t.”

“Hubert,” Edelgard wheezed as she struggled to shuffle him over and onto his unmade bed, “I’m not concerned about how clean your room is at the moment. Tell me where the kit is.”

Following his instructions, she unearthed the small chest locked in the bottom drawer of his crowded desk and rattled through the collection of bottles inside, squinting to read their labels. Hubert watched her with a muddled fascination as she flit about the room to light the lamps and fill his washbasin, like a cat tracking a pale purple moth. He flinched with surprise when she was suddenly before him again, holding his chin to steady his head as she wiped his face clean with a handkerchief.

“Your eyes are enormous,” Edelgard said worriedly, smoothing back his hair to see both more clearly. “Is that a sign of something?”

“Slammed my head at some point.” Up close, the scent of her perfume was dizzying. “No cure for that but to wait.” He pulled away, tried to regain focus. “Have you found it?”

As soon as she put the bottle in his hand he raised it to his mouth, tearing out the small cork with his teeth. The vulnerary was thick and unpleasant in taste, somewhat like wine gone too sour. But Hubert choked it all down, even licked his lips once the bottle was empty. A brief flash of warmth ran through his body before the magic seeped through his veins.

Painstakingly, he began peeling off his ruined coat, doublet, and shirt. He tossed everything to the floor atop his and Edelgard’s filthy gloves. Looking down at his bare skin, he watched the shallower cuts close themselves, the bruises molt from red to purple, green, yellow. His head still throbbed, but at least some of the dizziness cleared.

Edelgard twisted the stained handkerchief in her hands. “It didn’t work. Your wound’s still there.”

Hubert looked down at the slash through his left shoulder. “Vulneraries don’t do much for more serious ones,” he grunted. He gestured for her to hand over the chest and rifled through it, selecting another bottle. “I’d need a proper healer if I wanted it fixed that way.” He poured the second draught directly over the wound, wincing from the sting. In another moment, though, the sting was washed away as his arm numbed.

“So why didn’t you go find a healer?”

“If you know of a healer in Enbarr, my lady, who’d have no qualms treating someone who crawled out of the canal late at night and left the remains of a changeling woman behind him, please, tell me their name.”

The moment her expression changed, he realized he’d said too much. But he chose to hope Edelgard would know it wasn’t the right time to ask. He pulled out another of the chest’s drawers and removed a bundle of thin catgut thread, a curved needle, and a pair of tweezers.

“Could you light the candle on the desk and bring it to me?”

Edelgard narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“I was already floundering in filthy water, so the last thing this wound needs is a filthy needle.”

“Hubert!” Before he could stop her, she snatched it from his hand. “You are _not_ going to suture yourself. You can hardly sit up straight!”

Hubert tried to take the needle back—and missed by a long mile. “My lady. Give it here.”

“Did you hear what I just said? If you do it wrong, you might make it worse!”

“If I do nothing, it definitely will be.” He turned his right hand over, fingers curled towards his palm. A small flame bloomed between them. “It’s either suture it, or cauterize. Your choice.”

Edelgard stared at him with wide eyes, torn between outrage and alarm. Then, abruptly, she stormed to the desk and picked up the candle. When she returned to the bed, she thrust the wick through his small flame to light it.

“Tell me how to do it, or watch all of your elixirs be tossed out your window.” She raised her eyebrows. “Your choice.”

Hubert glared at her.

The mattress sagged as he dragged himself over to make room.

He explained how to clean the edges, the use of the tweezers, how to catch the needle in the right layer of skin without digging into the muscle below. Edelgard gnawed at her lip as she passed the needle through the candle flame. With her sitting so close, he had the strange thought of her perfume sinking through his open skin, getting trapped inside him forever once she stitched it up.

“This can’t be difficult,” she mumbled to herself as she threaded the needle. “It’s a needle and thread. It’s mending. If I can embroider cushions, I can do this.”

“Come on,” Hubert urged. “Before the numbness wears off.” _Before I can think clearly enough to back out of this._

Edelgard’s hands weren’t as sure as a doctor’s, but they were still far steadier than his. He watched as the wound closed up, stitch by stitch, the little lines dotting his skin like ants in formation. By the time she tied the final knot, the ache was beginning to return, but no more blood seeped through.

She passed the bloodied needle through the candle flame again before shakily placing it back in its drawer. “I need something to, um, cut away the rest of the string.”

“Here,” Hubert said, reaching to feel his right forearm—and found nothing in the sheath.

Edelgard yelped when he stood quickly, almost knocking her backwards. He swayed on his feet as he stumbled to the door, looking down, searching. The wound throbbed when he dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl, pushing aside the mess of discarded clothes, fallen books and papers, feeling in the slats of the wooden floor.

“Hubert, what on earth?!”

“My knife,” he gasped, “I lost it. It must have fallen when we warped. Or else it must be—”

The image of Monica arose in his mind: her twisted, battered torso sinking into the waters. Something silver still gleaming from her chest.

Hubert sat back on his heels. His eyes burned as he rubbed his hands over his face.

“I lost it,” he repeated. “My last defense. I lost it.”

Two hands cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look up. From this angle, Edelgard was as tall as a cathedral statue. She smoothed back his hair again.

“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s only a knife.” When he tried to argue, she pressed her thumb over his lips. “No, listen. It was a tool like any other. It did its job: it protected you.” She bent down to hook her hands under his elbows, gently pulling at him: a suggestion to follow. “Come on. Stand up, please.”

It was another miracle that they didn’t collapse as they repeated the shuffle to his bed. Edelgard tried to get him to lie down, but Hubert refused, moving until he was sitting with his back pressed to the wall.

“My head,” he explained. “I shouldn’t sleep, not for the first few hours. Could make it worse.”

“Alright.” She managed to maneuver him enough to slip a pillow behind him. Before he could stop her, she arranged herself at his right side, against his better shoulder. Her skirts took up most of the space, spilling across his bed. “How should I keep you awake, then?”

When Hubert looked down, he found the angle brought his face only inches from hers. Was it her perfume or his woozy head that was still making him so unfocused? The smallest details were somehow captivating, crucial to study. He could count each of her dark eyelashes. In the low lamplight, her pearl earrings were luminous, two moons gleaming beside her neck. So bright, too bright to gaze at directly. He had to look away.

“Just…” The vulnerary was really wearing off now. Twinges of pain leaked through his daze. “Just talk. Tell me one of those old crusader stories. Tell me anything.” He felt her hand brush over his forearm, coming to rest over the knife’s empty sheath. “I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like.”

“No you haven’t,” Edelgard scoffed, but there was a note of warmth in it. “Even while you ignored me, you still twitched a little whenever I spoke.” She pinched his skin gently, not even enough to sting. “Don’t deny it. I saw you.”

“Ha.” His head felt so heavy. It drooped of its own accord, falling against Edelgard’s. “Of course you did. I should’ve known.”

“Yes, you should’ve.” She pinched him again, a little harder than before. “Stay awake, remember?”

Hubert forced himself to nod. Her hair mussed under his cheek. A flower was squashed against his ear. But Edelgard only curled closer. She began the story.

* * *

The spell broke shortly before dawn did. Reality made itself known piece by piece, like the elements of a calculation.

One: Tired of blinking in and out of half-sleep for hours, Hubert’s eyes finally focused when they discovered a dark spot in the lavender sea of Edelgard’s skirts.

Two: At some point, she’d unstrapped the sheath from his arm. His skin was warm under her hands as she idly massaged out the red marks left behind.

Three: Through his lone window, he could see the tiny, bobbing lanterns of departing carriages as they rolled away from the palace hill. The ball was trickling to an end. His father would return to their apartments soon.

Four: After taking off his ruined clothes to see to his injuries, Hubert had neglected to replace them. If anyone came in, they’d find him on a bed, bare from the waist up, with a lady of marriageable age and significant rank beside him.

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert said groggily. He wanted to alert her to the urgency of the situation, but somehow all that came out was, “I got blood on your gown.”

Edelgard shifted, searching through the folds of fabric until she spotted the stain. “Oh, it’s not much. I’ll spill wine over it. The laundry girls won’t be any happier, but it’ll cover the color.” She tugged at the edge of the guard’s cape that still covered her shoulders. “This might be in worse shape, though, from rubbing against yours. I’ll have to give Kraus money to have a new one made.”

He tried again, with words that made better sense: “My lady, you have to go. They’re going to expect me to start the day soon, and you can’t be seen leaving here. We’d be in more trouble than I can even imagine.”

Edelgard frowned. “Hubert, you can’t think you’ll be able to work like this. Can you move your arm at all?”

“Well enough.” He tried to hide his wince as he flexed his left elbow. “It’s not the hand I write with, and most of what I do is write. If I’m careful, no one will notice.” Reluctantly, he pulled away from her, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. He peeled off his still-wet shoes and stockings and grimaced when his wrinkled feet met the floor.

He expected another protest from her as he stood and hobbled to the wardrobe, but Edelgard was silent. He glanced at her in the inner mirror as he took out a fresh shirt. It wasn’t easy to pull it over his head one-handed, but he managed. The ties that closed the collar, though, taunted him.

Suddenly, Edelgard spoke up.

“The…person,” she paused, fingering the stain on her skirt, “that you killed.” He watched her reflection, but she didn’t look back. “Were they the first?”

His right hand fumbled to take up the ties. He could make a knot, but it was difficult to tighten it.

“Yes. But if they weren’t, my lady, would you feel better about it, or worse?”

She didn’t answer. Hubert pulled the ends loose to try again.

“If I told you they were a cruel person,” he said, fingers shaking, “that they cared nothing for my life, and were glad to have the chance to kill me, would you excuse me? Would I be justified if I said there was no other way to be rid of them? That I’ve known it would come to this end for years?” He yanked the ends with a jerk; still not tight enough. “Would you forgive me even if I said killing them made me glad—truly glad—and I don’t regret it?”

There was a rustle behind him as Edelgard eased off the bed.

“Whether I feel better or worse, I’m not a priest, Hubert. You don’t have to seek my forgiveness.”

Hubert looked hard at his own reflection. His cheekbone was a mottled, ghastly yellow where the half-healed bruises bloomed from the side of his head. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and lined from more than just this one sleepless night. His shirt hid all the other marks Monica had left, but it was impossible to hide the misery that lurked in his glassy eyes and in the hard, thin line of his mouth. His hair, smoothed so carefully back by Edelgard’s hands, was the one feature that didn’t repulse him. He wanted to rip it from his scalp with his fists.

Forgiveness. Who would forgive him anything? He looked at himself and saw only the physical evidence of everything he was warned not to be: selfish, foolish, weak. He didn’t even have the strength to refuse Edelgard as she pushed his hand down and reached up to tie his collar herself.

“A ‘changeling woman,’ you said.” Without waiting for his instructions, she reached into the wardrobe and selected a doublet and pair of breeches. He was beyond relieved when she politely turned around. “Explain what that means.”

“I can’t,” he managed to say as he wrestled himself into the breeches.

“Can you explain why she wanted you dead, at least?”

“Again, I can’t.”

When he finished tucking in his shirt, Edelgard turned back around. He expected to find her angry, but instead her expression was almost sad.

“Then explain, Hubert, why you’ll work so hard to keep me from harm, but won’t let me do the same for you.”

“Because I—because that’s—” He huffed, exhaling through his teeth. “Because that’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s what the Imperial Household does.”

“But the imperial family has no obligation to protect its own Household? You know as well as I do that that’s not fair.”

 _Not fair._ It was like she’d thrown a match into a bale of wet hay: he thought the spark was smothered, but there was still something dry underneath. And it caught. It flared.

“Not fair!” Hubert’s voice rose as he stepped forward, as though closing the distance would force her to see, to get it. His elbow knocked into the wardrobe door but he hardly felt the sting. It sent the mirror swinging, the whole room twisting inside it. “Yes, it’s not fair! Nothing ever is! That’s how things are: the Household, the Empire, the world! It’s all just numbers, fixed from the beginning. We can count them over and over but the values will never change. Our lives will always have a gulf between them, and it’s a waste of time to deny that!”

Edelgard didn’t back away.

”Did Anton tell you to stay away from me?” she demanded. “Did he make you send that note?”

“No,” Hubert snapped. “It was my father, to keep me in line. Just as well that he did; I was used to acting on what I wanted, and if I’d actually gotten it, you and I would both be—”

“In Fhirdiad? Or were you going to say ‘executed?’”

Slowly, the rocking mirror stilled. Edelgard was the first to look away, unfolding the doublet she still held.

“My mother told me. I begged my father to see her one last time, before she left. ‘Stay close to Master Vestra,’ she said. ‘He’s not corrupted like everyone else. He and your Crest are your only advantages now.’” She opened the doublet and offered it to him, ready to receive his arms. “Imagine how I felt when I had just the Crest.”

Hubert stared at her. The room felt like it was still spinning.

“Why didn’t you say anything?“

“Why didn’t you?” She shook the doublet. “Hurry up, if you want the buttons done before your father’s here.”

She eased it over his shoulders, taking special pains with the left, then rounded to his front to fasten it. Her delicate fingers moved nimbly, starting with the buttons near his neck. Once she finished the first few, she went back to fix his collar, adjusting it to show just the right amount of white above the black silk. Every movement was attentive, mindful of his comfort.

As she moved down his chest, Edelgard said, “Are you still breathing under there?”

His exhale was too shaky. “It’s…I don’t think I’ve been dressed by someone else since I was a child.”

“And wouldn’t you know, I’ve never done it by myself. Who’d have thought, us switching places.” After finishing at his waist, she did his cuffs too, then smoothed her hands over the fabric to fix any wrinkles. “Does that ruin your theory of fixed fates and numbers?”

She stepped back to check her handiwork. Edelgard, with her collapsing hair, her smashed flowers, her bloodied cloak and skirt, looking over his clean clothes. Hubert felt a pain in his chest and had no wound to blame.

Finally, she moved away, bending down to retrieve her ruined gloves. He was helpless to watch her walk to the door.

But before turning the handle, she paused.

“Do you agree with my mother? Did you think of me as an advantage?”

“No,” he answered immediately. “No, you were—you are—to me, you’ve always been a friend.”

Her smile was a sad, fleeting thing. “Then I wish you’d trust me as one.”

“Lady Edelgard—”

She opened the door and stopped halfway through.

“I planned to paint this afternoon,” she said carefully, “and Isengard worries I may get lost. If she asks, know you’re not obligated to find me. You’ve done more than your fair share of that over the years. But if you do, I’ll be looking for you.”

Dawn poured through the window and washed the closing door in red light, like dying coals.

* * *

Luckily, his hair hid the worst of the bruising, but if anyone noticed they didn’t dare to comment. Hubert went about his morning with a pounding head and a throbbing shoulder.

By late afternoon, Lady Isengard sent a page. He was already reaching for his winter cloak as the boy walked in.

He found Edelgard in the little vineyard that clung to the palace hillside, near the cathedral. This time of year, it was difficult to imagine the rows of withered vines around them could ever bear fruit. In spite of the cold, she’d taken off one glove to better wield her charcoal, laying down the first sketch on a new canvas.

He told her everything.

When he finished, she looked down at her bare hand, rubbing her stained fingertips together.

“My father…” She took a shuddering breath. “How long, do you think, if there was any hope that he—”

“One year.” It hurt to see the words land heavy on her shoulders. “Two, perhaps, if his strength holds out.”

“And if the treatments stopped? If they had their Crest of Flames to be occupied with?”

“I don’t know, my lady. Your brother has already offered all the wealth and land he has to give. I don’t know what would be greater than that, in the Archbishop’s eyes.”

“I do.”

She sat the charcoal on the edge of the easel. With one swift movement, she wiped her hand over the surface of the canvas, smearing the lines.

“If it could keep my father alive—if it could keep the Empire intact—would you consider my idea? Even if you didn’t like it?”

Hubert knew, so well, the look in her eyes: sharp as arrows, just as piercing.

“Yes,” he said. “I trust you.”

* * *

Anton didn’t need Hubert’s help to dress for dinner, so when he found him in place of the usual valet, he was surprised. Surprise turned to confusion when he got a better look at Hubert’s bruised face and the bundle he carried in his arms.

“Your Highness,” Hubert said. He dropped last night’s bloodied, torn clothes at Anton’s feet. “I wish to make my second pledge.”

Anton toed the sleeve of the still-damp coat, frowning. “What, did you prove yourself in an alley scrap for my honor?”

“No, my lord. It was only too difficult to collect the body again. Otherwise, I would have honored you with Kronya’s head.”

Anton’s shock was so rare to see that it was almost gratifying to witness. Hubert felt it was a victory just to keep his own stoic expression intact.

“It was appalling to see such shameful behavior from the two of them, my lord,” he continued, shaking his head. “Kronya never should’ve allowed last night’s meeting to proceed without alerting you to the fact that she knew I was outside. The insolence of the other called Solon was also upsetting; to address his sovereign like that, in front of another servant? He deserved more than his tongue cut out. Especially when, in your absence, he gave further orders contradicting yours.”

“Orders?” Fury was quickly overtaking Anton’s shock now. “What orders?”

“To harvest blood from the Archbishop’s Chief Secretary,” Hubert said calmly, “to gain power that would aid his plan in usurping you.”

Edelgard had been afraid it wouldn’t work, but Hubert was certain. He knew Anton better than he knew himself. He knew what he wanted—and what he feared most.

“I hoped to spare Kronya that she might confess to you directly,” he continued, watching Anton’s anger rise like bubbles in boiling water, “but she showed no remorse. If I hadn't killed her, your plans would’ve collapsed. I recommend that you deal with Solon quickly, before he realizes what’s occurred.”

“I can say for certain that Solon will be _dealt with,”_ Anton snarled. He began to pace, tugging at his collar as though he was aching to rip something just for the satisfaction.

“And to be thorough, you must also alter the tactics of your other allies.” Hubert crossed his arms neatly behind his back. “The mages from Morfis have caused a fair share of suspicion: appearing in the Emperor’s apartments, leaving blatant evidence behind. The household staff can be kept quiet, yes, but only to a point. It would only take one handsome sum to bring testimony before the Council that the Prince Regent planned the Emperor’s death in earnest. In the midst of the uproar, it would be easy for them to make a puppet of a more pliable, inexperienced candidate.” He watched Anton halt. “Perhaps one of your siblings, maybe a lesser cousin. Perhaps even someone from their own families. Duke Aegir still mourns the loss of Hyrm County, after all.”

“So that’s your proof of loyalty?” Anton’s laugh was an unpleasant, sour sound. “Telling me I might harbor a whole court of traitors?”

“No, my lord, only a task performed out of duty. To prove my loyalty, I’ve found the price that will sway the Archbishop.” Hubert clenched his hands behind his back. “Trade Lady Edelgard for your Sitri. The Crest of Seiros for the Crest of Flames.”

He knew every step of the argument that would follow. He’d gone through it himself with Edelgard just hours before. He was prepared for Anton to sneer back, “That would never work.”

“Why not? Brigid surrendered their crown princess as a show of loyalty to the Empire. We would be following in our own footsteps by surrendering Lady Edelgard to the Church.”

“A Church that wouldn’t take her. If you know this much, Hubert, then you know while even divine, the Crest of Seiros is still second-best. Why would the Archbishop trade her prize for something of lesser value?”

“The value isn’t just in the Crest of Seiros, my lord. It’s that Lady Edelgard can wield it.” At Anton’s doubtful expression, he bowed respectfully, swearing, “I’ve seen it myself. I’ve checked the records: no bearer of that Crest has been able to manifest it since Emperor Artemisia IV. You are well-aware that your sister is the only inheritor of this Crest in your generation, and it’s long been declining in the imperial line. She may be the very last of the blood of Seiros. A relic, by the Church’s standards.”

“And you think that’s enough for the Archbishop to want to hold against me?”

“No,” Hubert said. “Which is why you’ll make Lady Edelgard your heir, until Sitri bears a child with the Crest of Flames.”

Anton was thrown just enough that he didn’t respond right away, and Hubert seized the opening with ferocity. It was hardly an act anymore to argue Anton down. It was exactly what he wanted.

“If the incarnation of the Goddess lives at Garreg Mach, if she walks the earth again in the form of a nun, why lock her up? Why does the Archbishop not elevate her, use her godhood to cement the Church’s authority? Because they’re ashamed of her weakness. They’re ashamed that the new goddess is painfully mortal.

“I suspect that Sitri suffers the same affliction as the Emperor: her body can’t withstand the power of her Crest. Were the Church to acknowledge her—acknowledge the dangers inherent in having any Crest at all—they’d have to undermine over a thousand years of their own doctrine. Can you imagine the Archbishop preaching that the Goddess saves, yet the Goddess’ blood kills? It would upset all order on the continent. It would admit that Crests aren’t a blessing, they’re a plague.

“But Lady Edelgard has no weaknesses. She’s young, healthy, and intelligent. She could be trained for any role. She could be made a nun, a knight, even a future archbishop. We worship the Goddess, yes, but the Church is the Church of _Seiros._ Edelgard belongs to their ruling line as much as she belongs to yours.

“The Archbishop isn’t guarding Sitri to preserve her virtue, my lord. She’s just waiting for her to die,” Hubert finished. “Any chance to have an heir that proves the Goddess’ power is still intact, still manifests through the servants of Her Church, is a chance she’ll see value in. She might make some other conditions to the deal, yes. But she’ll still want Lady Edelgard more.”

Anton stopped pulling at his collar. He paced to the window and back again, slowly, brow creased as he thought. Hubert stood and watched. He would wait all night, if he had to. He would wait there for weeks.

He didn’t have to.

“Kneel,” Anton said.

There were no witnesses, but that wasn’t vital. Hubert recited his pledge in a steady, clear voice, kissed the signet ring without a shudder. When he stood, Anton’s eyes were gleaming.

“Hubert,” he said, “if you win this for me, you will be raised to the very stars.”

Not that Hubert believed him. Anyone could recite vows, whether they meant them or not.

* * *

The Emperor couldn’t lift his head enough to bring the letter close, so Hubert read it aloud. When he finished, he worried that the vacant look in His Majesty’s eyes meant he was incapable of understanding it. His once-sandy hair was almost fully white now. His skin clung to the bones of his face like that of a starving man.

Hubert was wondering if he should offer to read it again when the Emperor croaked, “That’s a strange condition. To send the nun’s body back, whole and untouched, upon her death.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. Perhaps the Archbishop is frightened that since the Southern Church dissolved, we've been bottling organs like the ancients.”

The Emperor’s chest twitched, a gust of air wheezed from his mouth. A chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be something. Maybe we should pack a pagan idol in El’s trunk, some runestones. If the monks and nuns don't know Almyran, we could disguise a dictionary as a druid’s book.”

But then he trailed off again, his eyes losing focus. Hubert waited, folding and unfolding the letter nervously.

“My El,” the Emperor finally sighed. “How long will she be gone?”

“Three years. They want her to stay even through the holidays; an insurance measure. So long as Sitri is in Adrestia, Edelgard will have to be at Garreg Mach. But in three years, she’ll graduate, and we’ll be required to present Sitri again. The child, too, if one’s been born.”

“Have to make sure that too long in the sinning south didn’t make her grow horns, do they?” The Emperor sighed again. “Three years. I don’t know if I have that many in me, Hubert. But I’ll try.” His cracked lips curved into a smile. “I want to live for that graduation. I want to see my daughter in uniform, leading the pack.”

As Hubert was taking his leave, the Emperor called out from his bed once more.

“That school, Hubert—with this back-alley deal, did they even make El take the exam?”

“It wasn’t a requirement, no. But your daughter insisted on it regardless.”

“And? How’d she do?”

“She had the highest score.”

The Emperor managed to wheeze out another chuckle. “In her class? Cheeky girl! And with only three months to study!”

“No, Your Majesty.” Hubert felt prouder than anything to make the Emperor laugh, fully laugh, when he clarified, “Not her class. The highest in history.”

* * *

The carriage was due to leave half an hour ago, but at the last second the coachman wanted to change horses, concerned that the first group wouldn’t be suitable for the journey. It took at least a week to skirt the Great Bay and reach the Oghma Mountains, even without considering delays of weather or robbers. Hubert stopped himself from wandering away with that thought.

“Stop worrying.”

He glanced at Edelgard, sitting beside him at the window. She hugged her stockinged legs to her chest, chin balanced atop her red knees. 

“Have you taught yourself to read minds from books too?”

“Reading your face is easier than reading your mind.” She put on an exaggerated scowl. “If you don’t want this to give you away, you should practice in a mirror.”

Hubert looked back through the window. The new horses were being hitched to the carriage. He could see the guards testing the balance of the wheels. Five of them would ensure Edelgard reached the mountains, but the Knights of Seiros would take her the rest of the way. When the imperial carriage returned to Enbarr, it would be carrying a different guest.

“If you’ve ever uncertain—”

“Hubert.”

“—If you think, at any point, that you’re in danger—”

“I know, Hubert.”

“—Send word and I’ll—”

“You’ll get me out of the tree.” Edelgard unfolded her legs and reached down to untie the top of her satchel. She pulled out a bundle wrapped neatly in cloth and held it out to him. “Here. Please open it so I can see you make a better expression.”

Carefully, he unwrapped the bundle. Its contents fell into his lap:

A worn copy of _The Thrice-Slain Knight,_ and a dagger in a wooden scabbard.

It was a clean, elegant piece. The hilt was capped in a silver ornament shaped as two eagle heads and fitted with a simple guard that sat square over his knuckles. The handle was ivory, expertly carved in a twist to help maintain grip. He couldn’t begin to imagine the expense. 

“I know it’s bigger than the knife you used to have.” Edelgard’s new gloves were still stiff as she pulled on their cuffs. “But I said I needed it for the Academy, so they made it for a belt, not your special sheath. Not that you have to wear it at all, if you don’t want to. I just thought you’d maybe…”

He stood to fit it to his belt. He might have another scabbard made, flashier than he’d usually select. If a nobleman’s dagger was to go unnoticed, it had to hide in plain sight.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Of course I’ll wear it.” By some miracle, he forced a smile onto his face. “Here. Is this expression better?”

Edelgard didn’t answer. She only stood up, took two steps forward, and threw her arms around him. 

Hubert couldn’t remember the last time he was in such an embrace. Maybe he’d never been. 

He wrapped his arms around her back. The black wool of her uniform jacket was so fine-spun it almost felt soft. Looking over the top of her head, he spied the coachman climbing into his seat, the guards taking their posts. One called to the footman posted at the palace entrance, who nodded and turned to go inside.

“My lady.”

She squeezed him tighter.

“They’re calling for you. You have to go.”

“Count.” He felt her voice as much as he heard it, the way she pressed her face against his chest. “Count to five.”

Hubert tightened his arms as much as he could without crushing her. He closed his eyes.

“One,” he whispered. “Two…”

On five, they let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy moly we’re more than halfway thru… thanks to everyone passing by the kudos and comments section, it honestly means the world to hear from you!! :’’’) this ship tag is small but so kind <3
> 
> \- Friends, it’s time: we had a ball scene, so I will link [my pinterest board for this fic.](https://pin.it/HuDkh7a) As previously mentioned, my biggest time/place inspo has been the Dutch Golden Age, but I'm hardcore in love with the wide-cut necklines of 17th century English cavalier gowns!! 
> 
> \- The mention of tulip colors is a wink at [the brief price boom+fall in the Dutch tulip market of the 1630s,](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/there-never-was-real-tulip-fever-180964915) which was denounced by the Calvinist movement as proof that God punishes the decadent. I'd give someone my firstborn child for a fic where expensive imported tulips from Almyra come to represent the fleeting power of the Crested nobility of Fódlan, simply because I can think of no worldbuilding concept that is sexier to me.
> 
> \- It took an embarrassingly long time to realize my faceclaim for Edelgard is actress [Holliday Grainger.](http://www.frockflicks.com/wcw-holliday-grainger) “why embarrassing??” I should've remembered how gay Lucrezia Borgias’ cherubic cheeks made me in the ancient days of 2011, and how gay they STILL make me. Link to [a light brunette Holliday](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/06/ac/29/06ac2929b2629cecfa94dfa36893640b.jpg) for this au but please do google her blonde _The Borgias_ look and validate me!!!
> 
> \- “do you have a faceclaim for Hubert, you know, the main character??” pUTS HEAD IN HANDS……I DON’T……I JUST…IMAGINE HIM??? I’M SORRY SON…… **ETA:** reader Glaciliina suggested [Matteo Martari](https://matteomartaridaily.tumblr.com/post/619929585476370432/luisa-spagnoli-2016) and I'm…………wow that's………[that's Him!?!?!](https://matteomartaridaily.tumblr.com/post/621209240751767552/markantonys-you-talk-of-a-true-republic-of-a) thank you so much Glaciliina!!!
> 
> \- Based on [this beautiful Petra fanart by @denimcatfish,](https://twitter.com/denimcatfish/status/1227097880877363202) I was inspired to use Filipino for Brigid’s native language! I apologize for any mistakes made, as I do not speak this language myself.
> 
> \- The volta is a dance from the early 16th century and is considered one of the forerunners of the waltz. It had a somewhat scandalous reputation because partners were supposed to face each other (gasp) and the lead lifts the follow into the air (gaSP) which could cause skirts to lift (GASP!!!!!!). You can watch a demonstration of the volta [here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wq4y4nQqXpw)
> 
> \- I tried consulting both Enbarr battle maps and the world map to determine how Enbarr would be structured as a city, but in the end I decided it was easier to return to Prague. Enbarr’s rough layout is therefore:  
> \+ The palace/castle complex and largest cathedral (Prague Castle and St. Vitus) sit on a hill surrounded by the neighborhood made up of basically everyone who serves it (Hradčany)  
> \+ The surrounding city flows downward towards the waterways, where the rich merchant and trade classes occupy the “central” district (Staré Město/Old Town) from which all other neighborhoods branch.  
> \+ And coincidentally, Prague’s got red roofs!!
> 
> \- We're living in a golden age of historical fashion research because you can find amazing videos [like this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eav5-3Bxv2Y) if you want to ensure your emotionally-tense dressing scene works
> 
> \- My beta reader caught that of all the things I describe in too much detail, I never described Knife 1.0. That was intentional, because I was saving all the juice for Knife 2.0: a combo of [this reference](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/32684) and [this one.](https://www.bolk-antiques.nl/inventory/bayonets-daggers/a-very-nice-antique-18th-century-german-silver-mounted-hunting-dagger-with-fine-carved-ivory-grip-length-49-cm-in-nearly-mint-condition-price-3-250-euro-1216139)
> 
> One final note: someone in the comments once used the phrase "pre-shipping" to describe the baby edelbert interactions and that has tickled me so much as I wrote the first half of the fic…pre-shipping……like they don't even KNOW the future but WE do ohoho………


	6. Sinners, Conspirators, Decorated Officers. Lone Moon 1183

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Description of bloodletting
> 
> This chapter? Fellas, she's a thick one. Heed my double line break, drink water.

In the beginning, a star fell.

She streaked across the sky for six days and six nights, and on the seventh She collided at last with the earth. She burned from the force of Her fall, streaked in flames of holy white, and that fire scorched the land wherever She touched it. Scholars have debated for centuries the exact location where She came to rest: the arid plains of Varley County, or the Valley of Myrddin, or at the very center of the Empire, carving the Great Bay out of the continent itself.

But it was agreed that wherever Sothis first touched Fódlan’s soil, it was not the Oghma Mountains. That was why they reigned supreme over the land, their ancient emerald pines still taller than most cities of mankind. The mountains came before man and star and god alike. Should the Goddess ever awaken again, She would find them unchanged, relics of a time before even Herself.

“Hubert, look!”

“No.”

“You have to! It’s good luck, they say, your first glimpse of it.”

Hubert deliberately kept his head down as he turned another page. “I’ve no need of luck, my lady.”

“I promise you can’t see any of the cliffside. In fact, from here you can’t even tell this is a mountain road: trees on both sides, no view of the edge.” A pause. “Hubert, please look? It’s so beautiful, I couldn’t bear for you to miss it.”

Hubert sighed. Setting his book down, he carefully edged along his seat until he was next to the carriage window—which he had avoided ever since they started to wind up the twisting mountain path—and looked out.

The towers of the Garreg Mach Monastery were washed gold in the late afternoon sun, a shining soldier braced against the darkening sky. Each brick of white limestone carved with the history of where the continent met the southern sea, mined and moved so many miles, over so many peaks, touched by so many hands nearly one thousand years ago. The monastery stole the peak of the mountain but loomed grander and taller than the mountain could ever be. It was monumental. It was miraculous. It was the House of the Fell Star, reaching heavenward to remind everyone from whence She came.

When he finally managed to tear his gaze away, he turned back to his fellow traveler. In the fading light that slipped through the foliage and into their carriage, her jade-green eyes were sparkling, shining with satisfaction. He’d given her exactly the reaction she was hoping for.

“Well?” Sitri prompted, excitement clear even in her soft voice. “What do you think?”

Hubert surrendered.

“I feel lucky indeed,” he said, to be rewarded with her ever-rare grin.

* * *

They’d taken only two small carriages: one for Hubert and the Crown Princess, one for her two ladies-in-waiting. Three guards assigned to each, all in plain clothes, no visible heraldry. Whenever they stopped at an inn, Hubert indulged the proprietors with a generous pile of coin in order to secure a private room and let them draw their own conclusions. Conclusions that had been carefully-calculated: a merchant family and their clerks, touring properties on the ports en route to the northern border.

When Sitri had first been told of the plan for her protection, she’d thought it very funny: “If you’re supposed to be a merchant, Hubert, you’ll have to dress more colorfully. And people might wonder why you have an older wife.”

“Easily solved. We’ll pretend we’re in mourning, Your Highness, for your late, wealthy, first husband.”

She twitched her nose at that, which he’d come to learn was Sitri’s form of a laugh. Even after three years at court, Adrestian etiquette and culture still confused her. She couldn’t understand why court gossip involved so many assumptions: what were the little clues that made people draw them? How did one pick apart a conversation word-by-word to uncover a different one? Why didn’t people just talk to each other, speak their feelings plainly?

“I don’t know why, my lady,” Hubert found himself saying too often. “But if they did, the Empire—the world, in fact—would be a very different place.”

He judged her naïveté to be a product of her old life; after all, she adapted easily to routine thanks to a lifetime of operating on a prayer schedule. But she had other, stranger behaviors he couldn’t blame on the monastery. Sometimes the staff would find her sitting in one spot, still as a statue, her eyes glazed in an old woman’s trance. She had frequent dreams, vivid ones, that she described so clearly they felt more like memories.

“I am standing in an empty room of black stone.” She spoke Continental fluently, but her slow, soft voice made you want to lean in, listen more carefully for fear of missing even one word. “I can hear the drip of water in the distance, as though I’m at the bottom of some deep, dark well. There is a great chair before me, at the top of a height of steps. But when I move to climb, all of it crumbles. Each stone breaks into a thousand shards and becomes ash.”

“And then…?”

Sometimes when Sitri looked at him, Hubert felt inexplicable chills. “Then I wake up.”

Now, as they wound closer to the monastery grounds, she seemed to draw further within herself. The excitement of glimpsing the towers faded into a quiet trepidation as they emerged from the woods. The long line of carriages spiraled down the wide dirt drive like a herd of sheep being steered through a narrow gate. Hubert cleared his throat to get Sitri to look back at him.

“Ready, Your Highness?”

She took a deep breath. With a slow dip of her head, she nodded.

Hubert rapped his fist on the roof four times. The carriage jostled a little as the guards jolted to attention. Two knocks sounded in return before there was a rustling overhead. Hubert got one last look at Garreg Mach before their windows were darkened, a quick thump confirming that the banners were fully unrolled. The gold-stitched eyes of the twin-headed eagle peered back at him through the glass.

He kept one hand on the hilt of his dagger as the two imperial carriages made their entrance.

When the road leveled out, another knock sounded at the back of the carriage, behind Sitri’s seat. She slid away the little panel covering the slotted opening. They couldn’t see beyond the back of the guard’s knees, but Ladislava’s low voice came through.

“We’re through the gates now. The Knights of Seiros stopped all the other carriages to let us pass first. They’re escorting us to a different entrance to avoid most of the grounds. Lady Rhea’s orders, apparently.”

Hearing this, Sitri’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“It’s a shortcut for me,” she mumbled. “She thinks I couldn’t make it up all the stairs.”

“As well you shouldn’t, my lady,” Hubert said firmly. “You’re one of the highest-ranking people here. Your feet shouldn’t have to touch the ground.”

Sitri’s expression hardened a little; this debate wasn’t new. “All are equal in the eyes of the Goddess. It’s an act of humility to climb the stairs of Her house.”

“And an insult to humble the future Empress of Adrestia.”

Sitri chewed at the inside of her cheek, but unlike her husband, she was always more willing to let arguments go. When Ladislava spoke up again, the carriage had begun to slow, rocking on the uneven cobblestone.

“We’re outside the hall just before the cathedral bridge. The Knights want us to continue on foot from here.”

“Very well.” Hubert knocked on the ceiling again; they lurched to a stop. His knees cracked with relief as he stepped out. He looked up at the hall’s facade. Up close, he could see the stone was old, pock-marked from centuries of weather. Yet the towers unsettled him somehow, as though each chip in the wall was an eye looking down, boring into him.

Hubert brushed the thought aside as he smoothed the sleeves of his coat. Altitude sickness, most likely.

He turned his back on the monastery and took his stance aside the carriage door, bowing when Sitri emerged. Ladislava waited opposite, ready to pass over her lady’s cane. But Sitri gently pushed it back.

“I’m rested enough,” she insisted. “After sitting so long, my legs are happy to walk, in fact.”

“I’m glad to hear so, Your Highness,” Hubert said in a warning tone. “But you mentioned a great deal of stairs—”

“It’s just the reception hall, Hubert. There’s only two floors.” Sitri waited pointedly until Ladislava gave in and put the cane away in her trunk. “You keep telling me that my first impression will matter more than anything. We want to prove that I’ve gotten stronger.” A hint of determination crept into her calm expression. “So I’ll prove it.”

Ladislava shot him a worried look, but the sun was dipping lower, the light retreating. Sitri shivered as they waited in the wind despite being swathed in both a cloak and shawl. Yet she remained standing.

No one could outlast the patience of a nun.

“If my lady insists,” Hubert finally sighed. “But if you feel tired in the slightest, you’ll take my arm.”

Sitri nodded. A few pieces of her hair escaped as the wind tore past again, tangling around her hairpin and fluttering in her eyes. But she didn’t seem to notice, entranced by the hall in the same way Hubert had been just moments before. If she thought the walls had eyes, though, to her they must have been welcoming ones. As they passed through the doorway, she brushed her hand gently over the stone, as though greeting an old friend.

* * *

With the guards charged with settling the ladies-in-waiting and the carriages, Hubert took stock of the reception hall as he and Sitri were led through it. Long, heavy tables filled each half of the room, their surfaces gouged with what looked like centuries of student graffiti. A nun was moving beneath the chandeliers, carefully lighting the candles one-by-one with a flick of her hand, filling the high ceiling with light as the sun continued to set outside. Families were waiting in clusters as underclassmen in uniform flitted about, helping with their luggage. One girl shrieked with joy as she sprinted into the arms of a boy who looked to be her twin. Another boy bowed stiffly to a square-jawed man who was clearly his father.

A noblewoman caught Hubert’s eye as they passed, then glanced at Sitri. Her eyes widened. Quickly, she grabbed her daughter’s elbow to force her into a bow.

“Ow! Mother!”

“Quiet! Don’t you know who that is?”

“No, why would I?”

“You foolish girl, lost all your court graces in just a few years—”

In such a cavernous room, sound carried. Heads turned. A few more families began to bow; Hubert recognized House Sigund, House Dassel, House Raabs. No other Imperial Ministers yet, but there was a page he knew from the Gerth estate. Ludwig von Aegir had doubtlessly arrived at the crack of dawn, wanting to beat everyone else.

Here and there he caught a flash of brown hair, but never the right shade, never with ribbons. Not that he would even know if she still wore them.

After climbing a set of well-worn stone stairs, they were left facing a set of heavy wooden doors. _Hello,_ Hubert thought with amusement as he took in the knight posted there: a broad-shouldered woman with sunny hair and sun-weathered skin. _Lady Jutta von Pietsch sends her regards._

“Catherine!” Sitri exclaimed when she saw her. “It’s been so long!” When she offered her hand, the knight took it briefly, smiling back.

“Too long,” Catherine agreed. “But look at you! Lady Rhea will be so pleased to see you’re well.” To Hubert, she clicked her heels and bowed much lower. “Surely thanks to your care, my lord. I’m Dame Catherine, Order of the Holy Knights of Seiros. Welcome back to Garreg Mach, Your Highness.”

“Oh, uh,” Sitri objected, nervously looking between Hubert and Catherine, “n-no, he’s not—”

“I’m not her husband,” Hubert completed for her. He bowed back to Catherine, but not nearly so low. “Hubert von Vestra, Master Steward of Hresvelg County, Chief Secretary of His Imperial Highness the Prince Regent, and heir to the Ministry of the Imperial Household.”

Catherine frowned. “I was told to expect the Prince Regent. No one mentioned you.”

Hubert gave her a very small smirk. “Regardless, here I stand. Prince Antonius could not take so much time away from his duties, and thus sent me to represent him.” He reached into his coat pocket to produce the letter. The bright red seal on it was large, impossible to ignore. “Consider me the Crown Princess’ guardian.”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed, but Sitri piped up, “If it’s alright, Catherine, I’d rather he stay with me. All these negotiations confuse me so, and Hubert is always helpful in untangling them. Could we…?” She nodded at the door.

Catherine managed to plaster over her suspicion with a smile. “Of course. I’ll show you inside.” She took the letter from Hubert. “I have to take this to Bishop Seteth. Once I do, he’ll notify the Archbishop of your arrival.”

“Very well. See that he does quickly,” Hubert ordered. “We’ve had a long journey; Her Highness would like to rest. Being led around blindfolded by a parade of knights is not a typical reception for honored guests.”

Catherine bristled, but she still dipped her head, grumbling, “Of course, my lord. I understand.”

With a heave, she threw open the doors.

* * *

The Archbishop’s audience chamber was tall, though not as tall as the hall below. A solemn chair sat at the far end beneath a darkened window of stained glass. The mismatching low couch and table had clearly been taken from someplace else and hastily shuffled inside. Sitri slowly lowered herself onto the couch with a sigh of relief.

“I’m fine,” she said before Hubert could open his mouth. “I’ve forgotten the air is thinner here. I’ll adjust.”

Through the arched windows, they watched dusk slowly bleed away into night. Hubert had begun to wonder if this was an intimidation tactic or if they’d been forgotten entirely, when the door burst open again. He stood, ready to face the Archbishop—but found only a girl in a dark blue acolyte’s robe.

The moment her eyes landed on Sitri, the girl burst into tears.

“Flayn!” Sitri exclaimed as the girl sprinted over and threw herself into Sitri’s lap. “Oh, Flayn! Don’t cry!”

“D-don’t worry, they’re h-happy tears,” the girl sniffed. She let Sitri wipe her face with the edge of her sleeve. “I missed you so much. I watched for your carriage all morning, but then I had to help with lunch and then assigning the guest rooms and then chapel duty after evening prayer so I couldn’t stay and it was luck, real luck that I passed Alois, who said he greeted you at the gate—” She hiccuped in quick succession.

“Slow down,” Sitri soothed her. “I’m here now.” Gently petting Flayn’s cheek, she smiled softly and looked up at Hubert. “Hubert, this is my friend Flayn. Flayn, meet Master Vestra of the Imperial Household.”

Sniffling again, Flayn released Sitri and stood up to curtsy. For a girl who looked hardly sixteen, Hubert was amused to see her cup her fist over her heart as she did, a long-extinct court mannerism. Until now, he’d only seen old widows stick to it.

“The Imperial Household,” Flayn said with awe. “So you work inside the palace?”

“Indeed, Miss Flayn.”

“Wow!” She sat next to Sitri, looking between them with shining eyes. “You must tell me everything about Adrestia! How many stories does the palace have? Are the roofs of Enbarr truly red, like in the paintings? What does the sea smell like?”

Sitri’s smiles were getting wider the longer Flayn remained in the room. “You know what the sea smells like, silly thing! You’ve been to it before.”

“Yes, but forever ago! I don’t remember it anymore! I’ve begged and begged Father to let me go the Great Bay, but he says—”

“Enough, Flayn.”

Seteth looked no different from when Hubert had seen him last, from the cut of his vestments to the carefully-groomed hair on his chin. He marched into the audience chamber with his face fixed in a scowl that the roof gargoyles would envy. Hubert offered a polite, “Your Eminence,” but got no further; Seteth stomped right up to him and began his rant in earnest.

“This is not what was agreed,” he spat. “The terms state clearly that the _prince_ is to present her, not a lackey!”

Hubert gave himself the luxury of raising just one eyebrow. “Yet the Archbishop sent her own lackey to meet me?”

“You—you would dare call me—!”

“Seteth,” Sitri said tiredly, “please, let me explain, and Hubert, he doesn’t mean anything by it—”

“I meant exactly what I said! I’ve had no faith in this foolish arrangement from the start, and I certainly haven’t been convinced when Adrestia can’t even comply with our terms!”

“Perhaps Adrestia could have complied if the Church had better communicated with her,” Hubert countered. “His Highness gave you not only tonight’s letter, but one last moon which went unanswered. Enbarr does not have Garreg Mach’s luxury of remaining staid. Prince Antonius can’t spare a week to journey north and another south again for just a graduation ceremony.”

Seteth’s nostrils flared. “Emperor Ionius went to that very trouble for his son, if I recall. But his son won’t put in the effort for his own wife, let alone his appointed heir?”

“His heir, whom I might add, is also supposed to be present.” Hubert gestured at the length of the barren room. “Seems the terms have been broken by all sides. Unless you mean to blame Lady Edelgard’s absence on Adrestia too?”

“No,” came a new, smooth voice. “That fault is mine. Edelgard had a taxing day and has a busier one tomorrow, so I sent her to bed.”

In a cavernous audience hall, with huge, heavy doors, the Archbishop had entered without making a sound.

If you squinted, it was possible to see the young, chiseled face framed in Enbarr’s cathedral when you looked at Lady Rhea. For a woman past sixty, she had aged very well. The decades had taken her features and sharpened them further, hollowing her cheeks, thinning her neck. But her skin was still mostly smooth, only a few fine lines marking the edges of her mouth and the space between her brows. She walked toward them with an even, upright gait, the hem of her robes softly hissing against her legs with each step. Even in flat shoes, she towered over Seteth; she was almost able to look Hubert in the eye. If she were wearing a mitre, her head would easily have loomed over all.

Her eyes appeared strange and somewhat bulging. Hubert couldn’t understand why until she came close enough: the Archbishop had no eyelashes. When she looked at him directly, her gaze was glassy, almost hypnotic.

“I did receive His Highness’ letter, Master Vestra. Forgive me; the end of the year is always a busy time, and my correspondence tends to fall by the wayside. But I have been expecting you.”

She extended her hand. “Your Holiness,” Hubert remembered to say before he knelt and kissed her signet ring; etched in the silver, the tiny St. Seiros pulled a sword from the sea. When he rose, the lines of Rhea’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Forgive my secretary too, Master Vestra,” she said. “Years at this school have made him unjustly convinced that young people are ever-growing in the direction of disrespect.” She turned her gaze on Seteth. “He is sorry for such a poor reception. He forgot that by the virtue of compassion that we practice here, even the most unexpected guests are always welcome at Garreg Mach.”

Seteth’s jaw tightened, but nonetheless he gave Hubert a short bow and grunted, “Indeed. My apologies.”

“Well,” Rhea said, folding her hands, “let us delay no longer. I should like to see the Crown Princess.”

There was a soft rustle as Sitri rose from her seat on the couch.

“Here I am,” she said.

Hubert was more than apprehensive about how this reunion would go. Sitri was always reluctant to discuss the Archbishop, even in confidence. The most he’d ever been able to glean from her was a short comment once after St. Cethleann’s Mass, while they waited for Anton to finish speaking with Lord Gerth. She had been in Enbarr six months and yet still gazed up at the cathedral ceiling as if seeing it for the first time.

 _“I still can’t believe I’m out,”_ she’d murmured. _“After all the times Lady Rhea swore I could never do it.”_

Now, he watched as the two women walked toward one another. Sitri was five years his senior, a woman of near-thirty, but next to Rhea’s towering figure she almost looked like a child. Her hands twisted in her skirts as Rhea looked her over, examining her from head to toe.

Then, Rhea opened her arms.

“My dear girl,” she beckoned.

Sitri stilled. Her expression remained placid, but after a moment, Hubert watched in shock as two large tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Holy Mother,” she said again, and let herself be gathered up, embraced.

* * *

After Seteth and Flayn were dismissed, after a late platter of white tea was served, the real negotiation began.

“Royalty becomes you, it seems.” Sitri let Rhea pinch her chin and turn her head left and right, her cheeks coloring a little from the attention. “I almost didn’t recognize you in such finery. Your health?”

“Much better,” Sitri answered with confidence. “Better than ever, in fact.”

Hubert added, “The Crown Princess is under the care of the Empire’s finest doctors and healers. Prince Antonius designated a special team to serve her alone as their patient. I personally can attest that Her Highness has improved her appetite, stamina, and energy. She is even an adept rider.”

Rhea looked horrified. “Riding? A dangerous hobby for one with troubled sleep.”

Sitri stirred her teaspoon, face flushing. “I’ve only had a few incidents; none at all in the last year.”

“Still.” Rhea turned back to Hubert, eyes twice as steely. “Riding should be reconsidered. A fall can break the neck of even an experienced knight.”

“I will note it, Your Holiness.”

“And these.” Rhea plucked the glasses from Sitri’s nose, turning them over in her hands. “What are these for?”

“The Imperial Physician found that Her Highness’ eyesight was very poor. The lenses magnify her vision; because she no longer squints when reading, her headaches have abated as well.”

Rhea held the glasses up to her face, seeming perplexed by the distortion, before she returned them. “How interesting. Adrestia advances by the day.” It didn’t sound like praise.

She kept watching Sitri as she drank from her cup, as though looking for the subject of her next interrogation. Hubert prayed that she wouldn’t roll up Sitri’s sleeves; he had no explanation prepared for the scars underneath.

But neither was he prepared for Rhea to bluntly ask, “And what of your marital relations? Does the Empire expect an heir?”

Sitri’s fingers tightened around the handle of the cup.

“In our first year, the baby came too early.” Her eyes did not leave the surface of the teacup, watching the steam rise and twist away. “Since then, Antonius and I have tried, but…none of them have lasted more than four moons.”

For a long moment, Rhea said nothing. Then she reached out and placed her hand atop Sitri’s head and in her low voice, began to recite a prayer. At first Sitri remained frozen in place, but then she too closed her eyes, relaxing. When finished, Rhea brushed her thumb over her forehead and her heart. Sitri did the same. Hubert dropped his gaze, feigning reverence.

“May they shine beside the Star of Stars,” Rhea said gently. “I’m sorry, my dear. But this means that Edelgard is still the Heir of Adrestia.”

“Yes,” Sitri said quietly.

“And so she must remain here until you are blessed with a child again.”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Hubert dared to cut in again, “but we wanted to discuss an exception.”

Rhea’s thin brows arched, two crescent moons rising over her sea-green eyes.

“Exception?” she repeated. “Master Vestra, the Church does not make exceptions. Our Goddess does not make exceptions, after all, when she pares the wheat from the chaff and divides our souls between Heaven and Hell.”

“But nonetheless, we hope that the Church will allow this one—by the virtue of compassion.” Hubert pushed his half-full cup aside. “The Emperor is dying. He has summoned all his children home.”

Rhea made a little huff of disbelief. “If rumors are to be believed, the Emperor has been dying for several years now. He did not ask for exceptions then.”

“There was no white pus in his blood then,” Hubert replied. “Treatments have only delayed the inevitable. The Imperial Physician expects him to pass before the year’s end. The rest of the imperial family has already been informed, and are returning to Enbarr as we speak.”

Rhea stared at him another moment, and then she turned back to Sitri.

“Is he lying, my dear?” she asked her.

Sitri looked between her and Hubert, shocked, before insisting, “No, no, of course not! I have seen His Majesty myself.” Sadness washed over her face like a slow tide. “He asks for Edelgard every day. He asks and he…he has been a comfort to me too, Holy Mother. He said he knew the pain I felt, losing my children. It burdens his heart that Edelgard cannot be with him—that his family is so separated, all of them scattered across the Empire.”

She grasped Rhea’s arm. Rhea, looking just as stunned as Hubert felt seeing such a bold action from Sitri, angled her teacup away in time to keep it from spilling into their laps.

“Holy Mother, please,” Sitri begged. “Let her come back, just until her father dies. I promise to try harder. There _will_ be an heir.” She squeezed Rhea’s hand between her own. “Make an exception for me, and my family.”

Rhea stilled for a moment. Then she untangled herself from Sitri and stood, smoothing her robes.

“Your family,” Hubert heard her repeat flatly under her breath as she walked towards the glass window, hands clasped behind her back. “The imperial family.”

“You don’t need to answer tonight, but if you would consider—”

“No.” It echoed around the chamber. “No, I will not answer tonight. This is a breach of contract; it will take much more than one evening’s consideration.” She turned her head to the side, one bright eye narrowing. “You wear your crown well, my child. But like the Empire has cultivated you, I too have cultivated Edelgard. She has great promise, and I have high hopes for her future with Our Mother Church. She has proven her worth as a fighter many times over when accompanying the Knights. I cannot simply spare her at whim.”

“Then take your time, Your Holiness,” Hubert managed to say evenly. He rose from his seat too. “But may I remind you, per our contract, we still have not seen Lady Edelgard herself. I have a duty to report to the Prince Regent that his heir is in good health.”

“I told you: she is already in bed. Tomorrow, the senior students will begin the festivities with a tourney against their rival Houses. Edelgard has been training hard for the event and needs her rest. You will see her then.” Rhea turned around fully to face them once more. “And seeing how late this meeting has gone, I need my rest as well.” She tipped her chin up, indicating the door behind them. “Goodnight.”

For all the pomp of being escorted inside, there was no one left to show them out. Hubert held the heavy door for Sitri and then let it fall shut behind him, leaving the Archbishop still looking out of her tall, darkened window, like a lone statue standing guard against the night.

* * *

Hubert awoke to the ringing of cathedral bells. He dressed quietly, edging around the pallets of the guards he shared his tiny room with. Status had guaranteed a separate suite for Sitri and her ladies-in-waiting, a true extravagance given how tightly-packed the monastery’s guests were. He wondered where Garreg Mach had shuffled all of its monks and nuns to in the interim. Maybe their vows of frugality made them less inclined to complain about sleeping on floors for a weekend.

In Sitri’s wing, most of the doors had guards at attention outside of them. Two knights in full plate armor were posted at one, Faersh griffins screeching across their tabards. They were watching Ladislava and Kraus with narrowed eyes.

 _“Maidin mhaith,”_ Hubert offered as he passed—to no effect.

“No trouble during the night,” Ladislava reported. She rolled her eyes in the direction of the Faersh knights. “Certainly no armies attacking. I heard Queen Cornelia even stationed a pegasi troop around the rooftops.”

“For their sake, Goddess forbid it hails,” Hubert muttered. Nodding at the door, he told her, “I’ll return in an hour to escort them to breakfast. I expect Her Highness will sleep longer than usual.”

The door cracked open, revealing one of Sitri’s green eyes.

“I’m already up,” she whispered. At Hubert’s frown, she explained, “It’s Lauds. My eyes were open as soon as the first bell rang.” She edged out of the room, careful to close the door without making it squeak. She too was already dressed, and she’d brought her cane this time. “Ladislava, Lady Bianka and Lady Miriam will follow later. I’ve told them to meet us at the tourney, so could you escort them when they’re ready?”

Ladislava bowed. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.” Sitri turned to Hubert. Behind her glasses, her eyes were glittering. “Breakfast, you said? I’m starved.”

They made their way from the cloister halls to the Academy grounds. As they crossed the bridge, a pair of young wyverns swooped overhead, chirping and squawking as they pursued a fleeing dove. A knight on a grown mount followed a moment later, saluting the two of them with a tip of her shining helmet as she flew past. Sitri waved back merrily.

“You’re quite spritely this morning, my lady,” Hubert remarked with amusement.

“I’m just excited,” Sitri replied. “I’ve never been to the graduation tourney before—only watched from the windows.”

“We still have a few hours til it starts,” he reminded her. “I hope you can stay this excited until nine.”

Her smile was small, but still warm. “If they have grilled fish and rice, I’ll be excited all day.”

They found the dining hall only occupied by a few clusters of yawning students. Sitri raced through her prayers before digging into her plate. Hubert found himself wishing he had even half her enthusiasm for the plain meal. He gulped it down with bitter, oversteeped tea, wishing sorely he’d brought his own coffee with him.

Once their plates were cleared, Hubert stood up. “Where to next, Your Highness?”

Sitri pursed her lips in thought. “I could show you around the lake if you’d like, or the greenhouse. If we’re lucky, it might be the early season for—”

For what, Hubert never found out, for at that moment he was lifted off his feet.

He was spun in a tight, dizzying circle. Though he struggled, his arms were pinned fast to his sides, making it impossible to cast. His only defense was to give his attacker a swift kick, but they only tightened their hold. They were shouting something, but being so close, Hubert couldn’t make out what. When his feet touched the ground again, the arms pinning him moved to his head, squishing his cheeks between two rough hands.

“Hubert! It’s me!” yelled his blurry assailant with…glee? “Ferdinand von Aegir!”

When the world righted itself again, Hubert found that the blur was, indeed, Ferdinand von Aegir, who pinched his cheeks with the strength of a proud grandmother.

“I almost walked past you!” Ferdinand said, beaming. “You cut your hair!”

Hubert looked over the mess of orange waves that couldn’t be contained behind Ferdinand’s ears. “And I see you didn’t. Now, _get off.”_

Ferdinand stepped back quickly. He was wearing the most casual clothes Hubert had ever seen on him: a loose, linen shirt dyed holly red; a close-fitting pair of black riding trousers, padded thickly at the knees; and dirty boots that had seen better days. Topped with his loose hair, Ferdinand looked less like an Imperial Minister’s son and more like a rogue horse trainer.

“Your mother will have a fit when she sees you like this,” Hubert couldn’t help but point out.

“Oh, don’t worry! She’s had several already!” Ferdinand chuckled, shaking his hair off his shoulders. “Two more and she and my father will be tied. But your father must be quite proud—you look as though you’re about to tell me that my lawyer’s last petition failed and the gallows await me Tuesday morning.”

“I’m _required_ to wear black.”

“Yes, _wear_ it, not _drown_ in it.”

A small snort drew both their attentions back to the table. Sitri seemed incredibly entertained by the whole scene.

“Your Highness, excuse my manners,” Hubert sighed, bowing to her. “May I present—”

“Ferdinand von Aegir!” Ferdinand bowed almost low enough to smack his head on the table, hand over his heart. “Heir to the Prime Minister and Aegir County, second-in-command of the Black Eagles House. It’s a great honor to finally meet our future Empress!”

“The same to you, Master Aegir,” Sitri said kindly. “Second-in-command, you said? Congratulations—I know the House rankings are very competitive.”

Ferdinand practically vibrated from the praise. “Yes! It’s been the achievement of my life! And my class has made the Black Eagles the best House by far! We won the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion this year, if you hadn’t heard.”

At Hubert’s confusion, Sitri explained, “It’s a mock battle. The students prepare for it for months, and the winning House enjoys bragging rights for the rest of the year.” To Ferdinand, she added, “A win for the Eagles, really? The last I remember, the Lions had held the title for…my goodness, five years or more?”

“Because of the failures of inferior classes of Eagles.” A look of deep bitterness lurked in Ferdinand’s eyes, like an old soldier thinking back on his years of battle. “We vowed that once we were seniors, we would not let our good name be disgraced again. We waited. We trained. And we _prevailed.”_ He turned sunny once more. “No doubt thanks to our superior strategy and teamwork! I may be second-in-command, but Edelgard values my input very highly and as House Leader she—”

Hubert felt his anxiety tighten its grip at just the mention of her name. _Master it,_ he thought, clenching his fist behind his back. He had managed so well the day before because he’d expected the meeting with Rhea to go as planned: Sitri and Edelgard presented to each side simultaneously, like they’d been swapped in the carriage three years ago. Preparing to see her was easy when it was just another item on his checklists. But with his plans undone by last night’s unfinished negotiation, the looming event had free reign to gnaw him down to the bone.

She’d never taken up his offer to be rescued. Her letters to the family were always cheerful, filled with funny stories and drawings of cats, but of course she’d never trouble them with real woes. Nor him—for even a short note, if misplaced, would bring consequences. So Hubert kept watch on her through words meant for other people, wondering which school tales were true, which ones were never written down. A month before he and Sitri left Enbarr, he tore out half a page from _The Thrice-Slain Knight_ , scrawled their date of arrival and a single sentence he put far too much thought into, and passed it to his loyal courier before he could talk himself out of it. If she’d received it, she’d wisely not replied.

But to fret so much was pointless. What was he so afraid of? That Edelgard would ignore him? She had before, and he’d survived. That Edelgard wouldn’t remember him? Impossible, his imagination getting the better of his common sense.

That Edelgard had decided, after years of living in this polite captivity, that he’d betrayed her by orchestrating it all, and now she had no need or want for his friendship any longer?

Hubert pushed the thought off his chest and forced himself to actually listen to what Ferdinand was saying.

“We’re still warming up now. In fact, if you’d like, you can return with me and watch the rest of the practice bouts! You can see the Eagles trounce the Lions and Deer before the main event has even begun!” He turned to Hubert with an eager gleam in his eye. “And for those among us who hate brushing elbows, it’ll be much quieter than the actual tourney—your pick of the benches!”

“What do you say, Hubert?” Sitri was being polite, but he could tell by her perch at the very edge of her seat that she really, really liked the idea. “It would let us save room for Bianka and Miriam, at least.”

“Whatever would please you, Your Highness.” Against his better judgment, he told Ferdinand, “Lead the way.”

* * *

Though the walk to the training grounds was a short one, Ferdinand still managed to regale them with what felt like a day-by-day account of his whole Academy career along the way.

“And the village threw us a feast afterward! The old knight was shocked that I wouldn’t accept the gold, but I told him it would have to go to us all, for the Black Eagles are a unit, and do everything as equals. If we let anything divide us, we’d never succeed!” He glanced back at Hubert with a warm smile. “I wouldn’t be the man I am today if I’d never met my classmates here. I’ve learned more from them in three years than from any of my Adrestian tutors!”

“I understand. I have felt sometimes that Garreg Mach and Enbarr sit at the opposite ends of the earth,” Sitri remarked. “It must be refreshing to set aside your ranks. I admire how at ease you seem with it all, Master Aegir.”

Ferdinand laughed. “Trust me, Your Highness, my ease did not come…well, easily. But I think it’s good to make the leap from one pole to the other; we should all try to view the world from another perspective when we can!” They stepped under a square archway; Hubert could hear the clanging of weapons nearby. “But don’t let me bore you with my philosophies anymore—get ready for the show!”

The training grounds were dressed with banners and paper garlands. Three sets of wooden stands had been built on three sides of the court. Ferdinand steered them to the red side, taking Sitri’s other arm to help her navigate the narrow stairs. Once they took their seats, Hubert looked out at the other students loitering on the court sidelines, running through drills. They were all dressed like Ferdinand, with shirts dyed to match their House colors; a few had even used matching cloth to wrap their knuckles.

The jousts and brawlers had rehearsed earlier, Ferdinand told them, and the swordsmen would soon finish up. The next pair in line sported blue and gold. Hubert watched them duel with a critical eye, noting the woman in gold had stronger footwork but a slower hand, while the man in blue was quick to strike but too stubborn to retreat. After three rounds the judge called the match for the Golden Deer, to the cheers of the woman’s watching friends. The two angled their blades politely down as they bowed and pulled off their gloves to clasp hands. Then they surrendered the pitch to the next pair.

Hubert watched another two bouts quietly, focusing intently on the students’ movements in order to keep his foot from tapping while Ferdinand and Sitri chatted and cheered. A third bout—red against blue now—had just begun, when a gruff shout of “Aegir!” came from below.

A bearded man stood at the foot of the stands. He had the light hair and fair complexion typical of the Faersh and the thick build and scars typical of a soldier. Though older than the students around him, he was dressed much the same, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and knuckles wrapped for brawling. He wore a sword at his hip in a dented but still-shining scabbard. As he climbed the stands, the sunlight flashed across it, revealing an etching of a griffin and star. A Knight of Seiros.

“Aegir,” he barked again, taking the steps two at a time, “there’s no way you finished your stable duty that fast.” His Continental was tinged with the heavy accent of the far north. “And the doors don’t open for guests until nine!”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Ferdinand said, quickly getting to his feet, “but I was able to finish quickly thanks to Marianne’s help! And I thought I could bring just these two, because this is my friend and the Empress of—”

“Jeralt?” Sitri gasped.

The man froze with one foot on the next step. He brought a hand to his eyes to block the sun and squinted up at her.

“Sitri,” he gasped in return.

Hubert made eye contact with Ferdinand, who only raised one eyebrow and shrugged. Sitri and the professor continued to stare at each other wordlessly. Hubert frowned as he caught her hands tighten around the handle of her cane.

Finally, the professor snapped out of his stupor and returned his attention to Ferdinand, grunting, “Alright, never mind the guests—if you’ve really finished with the stables, I have another job for you. Varley’s got cold feet again, so would you go talk her out of the bush?”

Ferdinand put his hand over his chest and vowed, “Right away, Professor!” He bid Hubert and Sitri a quick goodbye and rushed down the steps, his hair flying behind him.

The professor completed his climb. Hubert followed Sitri as she leaned on her cane to stand up as he reached their row. She seemed at a loss for what to say, her lip bitten between her teeth—another bad sign.

“Sorry. I didn’t know it was you from down there, since you’ve got your hair up,” the professor said. He pointed to his own eye with a smile that wrinkled the deep scar on his cheek. “They look good.”

Sitri pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, smiling shyly back. “T-thank you. And I didn’t know you either, um, with the beard.”

His smile fell. “It looks that bad?”

“No! No, not bad,” she reassured him. “Just different.”

He chuckled. “‘Different’ is what most people use when they’re too polite for ‘bad.’”

At once Sitri’s nervousness fell, replaced with a playful exasperation. “Not you too,” she scolded him. “I get enough critique on my wording from—” She stopped, aghast, and then turned to the side to address, “—Hubert! Oh, I’m so sorry, how rude I’ve been! Hubert, let me introduce my dear friend, the Captain of the Knights of Seiros, Jeralt Eisner.” To Jeralt, she added, “This is Hubert von Vestra, my husband’s Master Steward, here as my escort.”

 _‘Dear’ friend,_ Hubert caught. But he kept his face neutral as he dipped his head to Jeralt, who bowed back.

“Master Vestra,” Jeralt said. “Good to meet you. But I have to correct Si—er, Her Highness—I’m not a captain anymore. I’m just a professor of the Officers Academy; I teach the Black Eagles House.”

Sitri gaped. “I thought I misheard Master Aegir, but you mean it’s true? What happened to Professor Navarro?”

“Right after you left, that old miser took a better offer at the School of Sorcery. Left Lady Rhea in a lurch, so I agreed to step in until she found a replacement. Then suddenly three more years went by.” Jeralt chuckled, “Don’t tell the Knights, but I prefer the professor’s life over the captain’s. They’re a wild bunch, those noble brats, but a good one. They even won the Battle of the Eagle and Lion this year, if you can believe it!

“And now I’ll bet a pound of gold they’ll win this circus show too.” He nodded to a group of red-shirted students down in the arena; Hubert caught Ferdinand steering a trembling violet-haired girl back through the gates. “If I can get Varley over her stage fright, Hanneman will be picking up my tab til the new Millennium.” His eyes suddenly darted over to Hubert, as though he just remembered he was still there. “Sorry, Master Vestra, don’t let me get carried away. Everyone here knows I never know how to end a story—your poor Princess always took pity on me and let me empty my caches of knights’ tales on her.” He winked at Sitri. “Or was just too nice to shut me up.”

As he watched Sitri’s cheeks bloom pink, Hubert could only think, _Oh no._

“But I should get going,” Jeralt said, glancing down at the arena again as the judge announced the axes group would begin next. “I think Hresvelg’s up soon, and I imagine she’s the one you came to see?”

“Oh! Yes, we haven’t seen Edelgard yet!” Sitri fiddled with the head of her cane again. “But why don’t you stay and watch with us? Master Aegir was telling me about the students and their sword techniques; I’m sure you have plenty more to say, having taught them.” Jeralt shook his head, making another polite excuse, but Sitri cut in, “Please, I insist. It would be nice to talk with you again.”

Jeralt chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Ha, well…I shouldn’t impose on your vassal too.”

Hubert understood what was occurring—what must’ve occurred here long ago. Sitri glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and never before had Hubert seen her look so nervous. He could say no, _should_ say no. Do his duty and make sure this ended before it could start again.

But caught by Sitri’s pleading glance, he hesitated too long, and so fate made his choice for him. Because from the sidelines, a student cheered, _“Yeah, Black Eagles! Kick his ass, Edelgard!”_ and he forgot Jeralt entirely.

* * *

Had no one said anything, he wouldn’t have recognized her. The swordsmen had dueled in only gauntlets and chest plates, but the two axe-wielders walked onto the pitch in full armor. Judging by height and the handkerchiefs tied around their shoulders, the shorter one in red was Edelgard. A long-handled axe rested on her shoulder, silver blade bright in the morning sun. Her opponent was still looking over theirs, making sure the head was secure on the handle. When they rested the knob on the ground, it came up to their shoulder. Knowing how Edelgard measured up against himself, Hubert compared the two fighters at opposite sides of the pitch, and regretted it at once.

He whirled on Jeralt and hissed, “This can’t be allowed. The opponent is twice her size!”

To his horror, Jeralt laughed. “Yeah, Raphael Kirsten’s a well-built house. But you’re about to see your little lady chop him down like one.”

Sitri subtly tugged at Hubert’s sleeve, cueing him to follow as she sat down again. Jeralt took the space on her other side, propping one elbow on his knee.

“A lot of families have the same reaction,” he continued as the judge checked over both fighters for loose straps or ill-fitted plate. “They send their kids here and then come to graduation shouting and wailing, as though they don’t remember we’re a school for soldiers! If you only knew how many weeping mothers I’ve had to soothe… But you don’t have to worry about Edelgard von Hresvelg.” He knocked his fist on his knee. “The girl’s got a thicker skull than a mountain goat.”

“But she won’t be reckless, I hope?” Sitri asked with a worried tremor. “Her little brothers told me a few stories, but they may be biased. Claimed she was the sister who taught them how to slide down banisters.”

“Well, that would explain a lot,” Jeralt laughed. “But trust me, among the Black Eagles she’s by far the most level-headed, a regular general! I never would’ve believed this senior class could win back the Battle Cup, but she put them through their paces. If Lady Rhea had chosen anyone else for House Leader, I’m sure the rest would’ve revolted.” Jeralt leaned forward to speak directly to Hubert. “But tell me: who was her martial tutor in Enbarr?”

Hubert managed to look away from the pitch long enough to grunt back, “She didn’t have one.”

Jeralt’s thick brows furrowed. “Really?”

“Her late uncle was too strict to allow it.”

Jeralt scoffed, “Not strict enough!” At Hubert’s darkening look, he hastened to add, “I’m just curious; some of the nobles show up here with a little training, and others with none at all. Hresvelg came to my first class with a good mastery of the basics, but had never heard of the duel code. Hit a kid right in the eyes—I’ve fought highwaymen less vicious.”

Hubert felt more pride than guilt at that.

Down on the pitch, Edelgard and her opponent tapped the handles of their axes together in a quick salute. Their armor clinked as they walked to their assigned sides and readied for the signal. The other students in red and gold fired off chants and taunts, leaning forward in their seats as the tension thickened, taut as a bowstring. Without meaning to, Hubert leaned too.

Edelgard didn’t look at him. She didn’t look to the stands, or her cheering classmates, or even to the judge as he counted down. She kept her eyes locked on her opponent, on every movement he made.

When the whistle sounded, she charged.

Hubert had never understood the appeal of the axe. It was a brutal weapon, meant to cleave limbs as easily as trees, associated with commoners because it was cheaper to buy than a sword. Watching axe fights at a tourney usually looked like—well, like two people hacking at each other until one hit the ground. The painful thud of steel against steel always rang in his ears, and the heavy-handed blows would make even the most bloodthirsty crowd wince.

This was like no axe fight he’d ever seen before.

Edelgard charged at the same time Raphael Kirsten did, but when his long arm swung out she dived under it, rolling over her head and into a crouch before striking a solid cut to his upper thigh. It was hard enough that she forced his leg to buckle, knocking him down to a knee. He pivoted quickly to the other to turn himself around, but Edelgard was already up again, and she dodged another swing before striking a second blow across his upper chest. Unbalanced, Raphael fell onto his side with a _clang_.

The judge blew the whistle; both fighters froze. Then he raised a hand and pointed to the red-bannered stands.

Point: Black Eagles. Scored within seconds. The students in red screeched with glee, clapping and stomping their feet.

Jeralt clapped with them. His scar folded into a dimple as he grinned over at Hubert and Sitri.

“Hang onto your jaws,” he said. “They’ll drop again.”

Raphael was more cautious in the second round. He didn’t let Edelgard get so close, using his longer stride to step out of range when she moved in, making her chase him down the pitch. When she finally dared a full lunge, both blades made contact, but Raphael had more force, pushing her back. Now he was the one on the chase. Rather than back straight away, Edelgard darted side to side with a spring to rival a rabbit’s.

Hubert had never seen anyone move so fast, so fluidly. She dodged a blade as easily as a dancer moved through a reel. When she caught Raphael’s axe head in the curve of her own, she twisted and yanked his weapon from his grip, sending it flying into the dirt. One, two strikes across the ribs and then a ram from her shoulder right in his gut to topple him again. Another whistle, another roar from the Black Eagles. The Golden Deer still cheered for their own, trying to send encouragement.

Edelgard nodded to Raphael as he stood up, giving him space to retrieve his weapon. She twisted her handle in her hands as she walked back to her starting side, adjusting her grip. Hubert could see the movement of her shoulders slow as she steadied her breath, readying for the final round.

When the last whistle sounded, Raphael’s swing finally landed—the sound echoed around the arena as Edelgard parried his blow. She caught the next one overhead with both axe and arm; he was trying to force her to down, limit her motion. He put more force into the next strike and succeeded in knocking her arm away; as his blade collided with her helmet, everyone tensed. She wasn’t down, but she had only one hand on her weapon, unstable.

Hubert was digging his hands into his own knees. His pulse pounded in his ears as Edelgard used her free hand to punch low. Raphael had to bring down his handle to block her from getting at his legs again, but when he did, he left his upper half open.

With only one hand, Edelgard got him in the side of the neck.

He tried to disengage, but she gave him no time. She sprung up by heaving his axe down, forcing him to help haul her up with his own weapon. Grasping the handle with both hands again, she kept beating at him until he was forced to step back too quickly to watch his footing. With an almighty crash, Raphael’s own weight brought him down with a simple trip.

There was no way to hear the whistle over the joyous riot from the Black Eagles.

Raphael rolled to a knee to offer Edelgard a final salute before he tugged off his helmet and gauntlets, revealing ruddy cheeks and a friendly smile in spite of his defeat. Edelgard had her back to the stands as she pulled off hers too; a lavender ribbon winked from the coil of her braided hair. She set down her weapon to shake Raphael’s hand and help pull him to his feet. She had to lean back to get enough leverage; Raphael laughed as they see-sawed for a moment before he was fully upright.

“What’d I tell you?” Jeralt grinned. “Vicious, that girl.”

Sitri put a hand over her chest and exhaled. “I think I felt a few of those blows. Maybe it was wiser to watch these tourneys from a distance, actually.”

Jeralt elbowed her lightly. “If you can’t feel your heart racing, then you’re not close enough!” A gleam entered his eye. “And if you’d like, I can get you even closer. Why don’t we go down and greet the champion?”

“I don’t know,“ Sitri demurred, “I mean, I’d like to meet my sister, of course, but if the students are busy I don’t want to cause a scene—”

“Not a chance; I’m sure they’d love nothing more.” Before Sitri could protest further, Jeralt took her free hand, squeezing it in his. “I’m sure Edelgard wants to meet you too. Poor kid’s been a ball of nerves all month about going home. I know one talk with you would set her at ease.” He smiled gently. “Really, the whole place hasn’t felt right without you here. You took all the calm with you when you left.”

Sitri’s other hand flexed on the handle of her cane. She glanced back down at the pitch, but Edelgard and Raphael had vanished into the passage. “Well…only a few minutes. I don’t want to distract her too much before the real tourney, especially if she'll go up against Master Kirsten again.”

Jeralt beamed as he helped Sitri down the steps, and Hubert knew at once that things were far, far worse than he thought.

* * *

Jeralt led them out of the arena and into the adjacent hall, winding down to the basement floor. They passed more students in training clothes, all chatting and joking about which House would win later that day. Jeralt was greeted with constant calls of, “Hey, Professor!” which he answered with a wave or short reply—“Hey yourself, Gautier! Watch your footing next match!” “You eat yet, Pinelli? You’d better hit the dining hall before it crowds up.” “There you are, Varley! Look, I’ll come give you the pep talk in a minute, yeah? And Bergliez, for the love of all the Saints in Heaven, don’t let her out of your sight this time.”

Hubert caught some curious stares at Sitri, but as soon as their eyes shifted to him, the students suddenly remembered their manners.

Too focused on dodging tossed gauntlets and the blunt ends of training spears as they navigated the crowded hall, Hubert almost collided with Sitri as Jeralt made abrupt stops, peering through open doors in the search. He was starting to think that Edelgard would be impossible to find in this chaos when Jeralt boomed, “Finally! I’ve brought you some fans, Hresvelg!”

In the equipment room, another student was helping Edelgard unfasten the last few pieces of her plate mail. The girl was clearly star-struck; she stammered a rebuttal when she was thanked for her assistance, assuring Edelgard that it was no trouble. When she slipped past Jeralt at the door, her cheeks colored as though she were embarrassed to be caught in such a fluster. And it was easy to see why.

Hubert had always known Edelgard was beautiful. It was a simple truth, not worth dwelling on; something everyone took for granted, like the fact that the sun rose in the eastern sky or grey clouds preceded rain. It never made much of a difference to him. He’d known her before that beauty became apparent: known the El who was gap-toothed, skinny-legged, nose sunburnt from playing outside and eyes red-rimmed over scraped knees. When her teeth straightened out, when her hair darkened with age, when her body changed shape, these were things that time made easy to overlook.

But he could not overlook her now.

Three years. He was sure she was much the same, and yet somehow nothing like he remembered her. He cataloged the familiarities: her round, high cheeks; her small, petal-pink mouth; her mother’s piercing arrow eyes. New was the hard set of her jaw, the graceful slope of her shoulders. She’d rolled her sleeves to the elbow, and it was easy to see the defined curve of her arms and calves—no doubt she had strength now beyond that of her Crest. Freed from her helmet, her braid fell down her back. When she shrugged off her padded doublet, one errant brown lock slipped free from the rest.

Hubert wanted to sweep it back for her. He wanted to say something, a greeting, an apology, anything at all, but somehow he could hardly find enough air to breathe. He wanted to leave this hot, sweat-smelling room immediately. He wanted to stay here forever and keep looking at her, Edelgard, whom he’d known forever and yet had just met. He wanted to…he wanted…

“I’m sorry to ambush you like this, Lady Edelgard,” Sitri began nervously. “I thought I would meet you properly last night, but I was told you were indisposed.”

“Please, it’s no ambush.” Edelgard walked over. She bowed respectfully low to Sitri, her braid slipping over her shoulder as she did. “I’m the one who’s sorry for meeting you so late, Your Highness. It’s an honor to finally be in the same place at the same time.”

“Oh, there’s no need to be formal.” Sitri held out her hands, the nervousness ebbing away. “You may call me Sitri, just as little Bertholt and Baldwin do.”

“Still ‘little,’ even at fifteen?” Edelgard laughed. “I can hear the two of them complaining from here.” She accepted Sitri’s hands and squeezed them. “But if I call you Sitri, then you must call me ‘El.’ No, no, I insist! You’re family now, and my family calls me nothing else.”

“Alright. El, then.” Sitri beamed. “Well, I don’t need to introduce you to your own professor. And I’m sure you know Master Vestra already.”

Hubert steeled himself. But there was nothing that could lessen the impact as for the first time in years, Edelgard looked—really _looked_ —at him.

“I do.” That pink mouth curved from a smile to a smirk. “Though I don’t know why he’s standing so far in the back.” She raised her right arm out in front of her, hand loose at the wrist, slender fingers curled. “Hubert, my goodness, don’t be such a stranger.”

As he stepped forward, Hubert reminded himself there was no crime in taking a lady’s bare hand if you’d known her for twenty years—an expectation to do it, in fact. Her knuckles were warm and rough against his lips as he kissed them. A soldier’s hands. He did not dare look at her face until he’d let go.

“Lady Edelgard.” So his voice did still work. “Congratulations on your match.”

“Thank you.” She rolled her sleeves back down, smoothing the creased linen over her wrists. “I’m glad you were able to watch.”

“A damn good match,” Jeralt agreed. He clapped Edelgard none-too-lightly on the shoulder, but judging by the proud spark in her eyes, she wasn’t hurt. “I’d better go, though. Bernadetta’s still jittery, and the archers are up soon. Why don’t you take a break, catch up on family business? So long as you’re back in time to suit up again, I can take care of things down here.”

“Only if you’re sure, Professor,” Edelgard insisted, but Jeralt put his hand on her back again and pushed her towards the door.

 _“Break,_ Hresvelg,” he ordered. To Sitri, he gave a nod. “I’ll see you again soon?”

“Yes. Soon.” She gave him a little wave before starting through the door. “El, if you don’t mind, we were waiting for my ladies to join us, so I think first we should send word to make sure they know where we’re headed next…”

Mindful of rank, Hubert stepped aside to let Edelgard pass first. As she did, she looked at him again, her eyes wandering farther down. When her gaze lingered, he worried over why—was there some stain he missed? A loose button?—until he remembered.

He put his hand on the head of the dagger and waited until she met his eyes again.

“My lady,” he said, nodding to the door.

Edelgard didn’t reply. But the way her eyes softened, the way she brushed back her loose hair as she stepped past, it said enough.

* * *

✦ ✧ ✦

* * *

Time was a fickle thing at Garreg Mach. It sped up and slowed down at whim, swept Hubert up in its current. Hours passed in a blink and he was back in the stands, the arena now packed to capacity. It felt like years before Edelgard was back on the pitch, this time battling a man in blue somehow even larger than Raphael Kirsten. Hubert’s heart was still racing even after she won again, his stomach still in knots by the time he applauded Ferdinand in the joust.

To the delight of the Adrestian families, the Black Eagles were declared the victors of the senior class tourney. Edelgard, now in uniform, came back to the pitch to pay her respects to her rival House Leaders. Then suddenly she was among their party again, accepting the congratulations of Sitri and her ladies.

“All thanks to them,” she said, giving her departing team a warm smile. “Would you believe that we were ranked the lowest in our first year? The perseverance of my classmates amazes me.”

After lunch, someone suggested a stroll through the marketplace. The ladies steered them towards a stall selling sacramentals: bottles of holy water, icons of saints, painted prayer beads. The old peddler behind the table saw the cane and offered Sitri his stool, and Lady Miriam cajoled her into accepting it. Hubert stood far to the back as the peddler chatted with the three of them, helping them select prayer cards.

When he noticed Edelgard at his side, he had no idea when she appeared. Had she been standing there a moment ago? Had she been there all this time? Clearly something about this place sent clocks into disarray.

“Did you forget my face this time, instead of my voice?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You keep staring at me.”

He kept his expression carefully blank. “As do you. You can admit you don’t like my hair.”

“Nonsense. If I didn’t like it, I already would have.” A cart rattled behind them in the street; instinctively, he pressed a hand on Edelgard’s back to move her out of the way. She stiffened at the touch—he pulled away as she said, “Oh. Thank you.”

Desperate to brush it off, he dared a tease: “And here I’d hoped that becoming an officer would make you more careful.”

The corner of her mouth twitched up. “Then you forgot everything about me.”

Hubert had another quip ready, but suddenly she stepped forward and leaned over the stall table, looking intently at a display of little martyr statuettes. A second later, a thunder of footsteps marched down the marketplace lane, armor clinking. Once the Knights of Seiros passed, she straightened up and returned to his side.

Hubert cleared his throat. In a quiet, conversational tone, he asked, “How do you find the company of the Archbishop, my lady?”

“She is…an exacting person. She has high expectations of her students and her flock.” Edelgard tilted her head slightly towards Sitri. “How do you find the company of the Crown Princess?”

“Much like yours.” At her confused frown, he explained, “She has a great deal of questions about the world.”

“I see. And how does she find my brother’s company?”

“That would be difficult to—”

There was a crash from the stall, a woman’s shriek. The marketplace hushed as everyone paused, looking for the source of the commotion. Hubert and Edelgard hurried forward and found the peddler hovering with a fretting Lady Bianka, while Lady Miriam crouched on the ground over Sitri.

“She fell from the stool, sir,” the peddler said worriedly. “We didn’t see in time to catch her.”

“Master Vestra,” Bianka whimpered, “I think that her condition flared up.”

Hubert dropped down next to Miriam, who was frantically waving smelling salts under Sitri’s nose. Though her eyes were closed and her body slack, she was still breathing deeply, her heartbeat slow when he felt her pulse.

He twisted around to glare at the peddler. “Don’t just stand there; close your shop. The whole street is gawking.”

As the peddler hurried to lower the awning, Edelgard ushered the fretting ladies aside and joined Hubert.

“Did she faint?”

He shook his head. “Her Highness sometimes falls into a deep sleep quite suddenly. Usually she will wake up in a few minutes, but sometimes it takes hours. There is a treatment we thought may have fixed the issue, but it seems it is not fully cured.”

Edelgard narrowed her eyes. “What treatment is that?”

It was too dangerous with the others still present. Hubert prayed that she could read more in his expression than in his words: “Nothing to concern yourself with, Lady Edelgard. Stay here with the ladies while I take Her Highness back to her room, and we’ll reconvene later.”

She studied him intently. Did she trust him still? Hubert looked back at her, not sure what other sign to give. Maybe the distance had finally revealed to her that he only got her into more trouble than he got her out of.

But then she nodded. With care, she helped him prop Sitri against his chest so he could lift her into his arms and stand. Before he summoned the portal, Edelgard put a hand on his arm to stop him. Silently, she reached out and fixed Sitri’s crooked glasses.

“Until later,” she vowed, and then she was swallowed in the flash of the warp.

Stepping into her monastery room, Hubert laid Sitri on the bed and then hurried to unbutton her sleeves. When he rolled the fabric back, her scars had vanished—the skin whole and unblemished, as though no blade had ever touched it. That was the thing he hated most, he mused bitterly as he dug through her trunk for the box. That her healing made every time he did this feel just as awful as the first.

The box was metal and square. When he muttered the unlocking spell, the lid flared with an unearthly blue light, bright enough to hurt his eyes. The lid unlatched itself and tipped back to reveal the items within: a scalpel and a glass vial.

He positioned Sitri’s arm and began to make the cut. It must be made in this shape, Master Periandra insisted, or it would have no effect. Blood bubbled to the surface of Sitri’s skin as he worked, one drop rolling down towards her elbow. As the thrumming feeling took root in his body, magic thickening in the air, he tossed the bloodied scalpel back into the box. The wavering sigil of the Crest of Flames glared at him from Sitri’s skin.

 _Pitiful creature. She is infected by the remnants of a dragon’s body,_ Periandra said the first time she performed the ritual. _If she is ever to heal, we must draw the dragon out of her._

Sitri bled. At first in a sluggish red stream—familiar, human. But as Hubert watched, her blood began to turn duller. When it glistened with a tinge of green, he pressed the neck of the vial to her arm to catch the spill. The vial filled with deep emerald blood, and the darker it turned, the warmer Sitri’s body became. When it was close to overflowing, he hurried to cast a healing spell. The ragged Crest of Flames flared as though in protest, but after a moment her skin closed under the white light. The vial burned hot in Hubert’s hand, even under his gloves.

He replaced it in the metal box. It glowed again, then pulsed once, twice in his hands.

“You are late.”

Hubert turned to face the masked mage. The voice was unfamiliar to him; a new one?

“Where was I supposed to find privacy on the road?” he shot back. “If you wanted this sooner, you could’ve offered to launder the inn’s bloodied sheets.”

He couldn’t see their expression, but the way the mage took the box out of his hands gave enough voice to their annoyance. They glanced inside, glass lenses flashing in the blue glow.

“Such a potent sample,” they murmured to themselves. “The master’s theory might be right—the body within these walls awakens the power within the blood. The Goddess still longs to be reunited with Herself.” They shut the lid again and tucked the box securely under one long sleeve. “You will have to bleed her again soon. Now that she has returned here, the Crest will only grow stronger. It seeks to root her to this place.”

“Again? We only have two more days.” Hubert protested. “She has appearances to make. There won’t be any time.”

The mage tilted their head to glance at Sitri, still slumbering. “Why not leave us in charge of her? We will drain the Crest’s overflow while you deal with the petty affairs.”

A smile crawled over Hubert’s mouth. “Oh. I was right. I don’t know you, do I?”

The mage straightened up, indignant. “Why should that matter?”

It was silly, but because of the masks, some part of Hubert always expected them to squawk when in distress. This one almost did, when the thorns clamped around their legs. Hubert tightened the vines with a twist of his hand, his head crowded with the spell’s voice begging him, _**Climb climb let me climb inside this one and grow, let my roots drink deep and sprout between the bones.**_ No, not now. The mage struggled, crying out as each moment pushed their body against the sharp spikes. Hubert caught the box just before it fell from their arm.

“Tell your master,” he said, “that he has breached the rules yet again. There is no access to the Crown Princess that I do not know of. I am to be told every name. Shown every face.” Hubert forced the box back into the mage’s hands again. “If he does not cooperate with the Prince Regent’s demands, the Imperial Household does not cooperate with you. The deal hasn’t changed these three years.”

“I don’t—” the mage choked, writhing in place, “—take orders from—”

“Remind him,” Hubert said smoothly, coaxing a vine to loosen its embrace around the hooded neck, “that what we have is an alliance. His Highness has given you the source of power you sought, and your people will grant him power in return. So if you want access to the goods, you will have to honor the supplier.” He patted the top of the box. “Now fly away.”

With that, he let the vines drop. The moment they were free, the mage warped away.

The quiet was broken by Sitri’s soft breaths. The mark on her arm was still fading, much faster than he’d ever seen—much faster than he knew his own pitiful healing skills could accomplish. Hubert settled down in the chair leaning in the corner of the room to wait until Bianka and Miriam returned. As always after the treatment, he reminded himself that Sitri was not like the Emperor: the bleedings made her better, not worse. She was too valuable for the changelings to waste. He had enough sway to maintain control of the situation. He would not have to kill her.

 _The body within these walls awakens the power within the blood._ When Hubert closed his eyes, he pictured a dragon coiled beneath the monastery, hungry, waiting.

* * *

The following morning, a note was slipped under his door.

> _Summoned by Rhea this morning, expect graduation rehearsal will take the rest of the afternoon. Will join you later at the banquet._

There was no signature, but it was tied with a violet ribbon. Hubert slipped it into his pocket and resigned himself to a very long day.

Sitri was still groggy, so he took breakfast with Ferdinand. Unfortunately, even an hour with the Duke and Duchess von Aegir was one hour too many. He excused himself after the fourth argument broke out, leaving Ferdinand with a pitying nod before escaping past the booming Bergliezes and the silent Hevrings. He spent the afternoon in Sitri’s suite, working on letters while the ladies-in-waiting did needlework. Sitri herself still sat in bed, alternating between dozing and reading through a worn book of scripture. All the energy of yesterday had gone out of her. When her sleeve slipped enough, he could see the cut was gone, completely healed.

At one point, she set her book aside and leaned back against the pillows, her shadowed eyes distant.

“I had a terrible dream last night,” she said.

“Poor dear,” Miriam said, lowering her needle. She left her chair to sit on the edge of the bed. “Tell us, my lady; my mother always said once you speak of the nightmare, it will fly off your tongue and away for good.”

Sitri adjusted her glasses on her nose. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, as though trying to dredge the nightmare up first before she could spit it out.

“There was a man. Standing over me.” Hubert stilled until she continued, “He was old, white-haired, but still strong. He had…he had eyes made of fire.”

“How terrible!” Miriam soothed. “Did he hurt you, my lady?”

“No. But I could tell he wanted to.” Sitri frowned, lost in the memory. “He hated me. It was so strong that I could feel it. I knew just by looking at him that he wished me dead.” She blinked once, twice, then shook her head. “That’s all I remember.”

Miriam patted her hand. “Well, now you’ve spoken of him, so you’ve banished him for good!”

Hubert left them when it was time to change for the banquet. As he dressed, he wondered how many donations the Officers Academy must collect from this event, when wine would do the job of loosening parents’ purse strings. Lord Varley would be an easy mark if his wife turned her back. He wondered if the late Empress’ piety had made her one too, all those years ago.

He picked up Edelgard’s ribbon, thinking of taking it with him to return to her, but that would rouse suspicion, wouldn’t it? The eyes he’d imagined in the old stone weren’t real, but the ones inside the halls were—Rhea and her underlings, the Knights of Seiros, the graduates, the mashed-up nobility of three countries. He wrapped the ribbon around his hand, flooded with the vision of how this evening would go. He would watch the flowing stream of people come to bow to and gawk at Sitri. He would make polite conversation with the men plotting with Anton’s devils. He would watch Edelgard play her part, sail through the evening with the confidence and grace that she’d grown while he wasn’t looking.

He would watch Edelgard try to talk to him, get the explanation for what happened at the marketplace, and be interrupted every time: by the ladies, by her classmates, by everyone and anyone more important than him. He could never let down his guard, feel at ease with her. He would refuse her offer to dance, and then he would watch her be passed from arm to arm until Sitri gave him a reason to leave the ballroom. He would go to bed, and too soon he would leave her again.

He tightened the ribbon until he could feel the pulse throb in his fingers. _Pointless,_ he thought, letting the coil spring loose. _You should never have come._

He left the ribbon in the pocket of his other breeches. If he was lucky, he’d forget it was there, and once he was home, the laundry girls would lose it for him.

* * *

Nothing about the banquet set it apart from any other Hubert had attended in his lifetime. He toasted his way through the forgettable speeches and chewed his way through the forgettable courses. The families of the House Leaders had the privilege of dining at the Archbishop’s table, and the misfortune of having to listen alternately to Duke Riegan’s cough or Queen Cornelia’s grating laugh.

He was seated between Lady Bianka and the Lady Daphnel, who thankfully was as uninterested in small talk as Hubert was. Down the table, Edelgard was steadily coaxing more life out of Sitri with the help of the Faersh prince. Prince Dimitri was a large, lanky man with a mop of hair that had clearly seen many failed attempts at a decent combing. He chatted easily with Sitri and Edelgard; in fact, he seemed very familiar with the latter. Hubert couldn’t make out their jokes at this distance, but he could hear their laughter. He sent back his dessert course after only one bite of the over-sweet pudding.

When Lady Rhea declared the dances would begin, Dimitri’s eyes lit up. He turned to Edelgard and made to ask her—

Queen Cornelia shrieked as Claude von Riegan bolted over so fast he almost knocked over his chair. He skidded to a stop on his heels and threw his arm in front of Dimitri’s face, declaring, “Not so fast, golden boy. She owes me.”

Edelgard groaned. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“Mind like a mousetrap,” Master Riegan said with a wolfish grin, and then pitched his voice up to quote, _“‘If Ignatz really wins the White Heron Cup, Claude, I will not only give you a dance, I’ll open our senior banquet with you in front of all our friends and relations.’”_ He gestured to the table with a flourish. _“_ Behold, all our friends and relations! Pay up.”

Edelgard gave him a withering glare, but with a heavy sigh she took his hand. Seteth looked aghast at Claude’s request to play a canario, but Rhea still waved them on. Edelgard had to double her steps to keep up with her partner’s excited pace as he hurried to the orchestra.

“I see bets are very serious things in Garreg Mach,” Sitri chuckled, smiling as the band began to play.

“The boy’s his mother’s son,” Duke Riegan grunted, shaking his head.

Watching Edelgard whirl around the ballroom was just as spellbinding as watching her on the pitch. She threw more than one exasperated look at Claude’s showing off, but the eyerolls were outweighed by the joy in each movement of her arms, the excitement that bounced on the balls of her toes. Hubert joined in applauding the end of the dance. As more couples hurried to take their places for the second number, Prince Dimitri stood and bowed to Sitri.

“What about you, Your Highness? Shall Faerghus and Adrestia attempt the minuet?”

Sitri demurred, “You are very kind, my lord, but I’m afraid I’ve never been blessed with any skill at dancing. But my lady-in-waiting, perhaps…”

So Dimitri led Lady Miriam in the minuet instead. As the night went on, their table began to empty: Queen Cornelia slithering over to a cluster of starry-eyed knights, Duke Riegan changing tables to play cards and drink with a few old war buddies. The ladies-in-waiting found plenty of partners; Prince Dimitri could be spotted by the bob of his blond head. Claude von Riegan was a mere flash of golden cape as he wove his laughing partners across the floor.

Hubert lost track of Edelgard, her height swallowed by the crowd. He thought of his earlier premonition and congratulated and cursed his foresight in equal measure.

“Pardon me, my lady, but may I ask for a dance?”

Professor Eisner cleaned up well. Hubert thought the dark grey scholar’s cloak would’ve looked silly on a man with such thick arms to fit into the funny sleeves, but on Jeralt it had the panache of a general’s cape. With his short hair neatened, beard brushed, even his thick scars seemed softer.

Sitri hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand. “I-I’m sorry, Jeralt. I want to, but I won’t be able to keep up. One of my spells came over me yesterday.”

Jeralt’s smile fell at once, replaced with concern. “No, no, don’t be sorry! You know I’d only stomp over your nice shoes, anyway.” He dropped to one knee beside her chair to bring them closer to eye level. “What happened? You wake up alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a while since my last. My husband hoped—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “You needn’t worry. You should find someone else to dance with.”

“But no one else would be happy to keep up with my ox feet,” Jeralt joked. “How about a stroll outside, then? There’s plenty of benches in the gardens, and the trees are in bloom.”

“No,” Hubert cut in.

Both Sitri and Jeralt turned with surprise. Sitri looked bewildered, but the way Jeralt shifted uneasily told Hubert that he understood. He looked aside, avoiding Hubert’s gaze.

“No?” Sitri repeated. “Hubert, what do you mean?”

“Forgive my frankness, Your Highness, but I know that the implications may not have occurred to you.” Hubert stood, folding his arms behind his back. “No—you, a married woman, cannot walk out of a banquet in the company of a man who is not your husband. It would put you at risk of accusations.”

“Accusations of what?”

“Infidelity.”

Sitri flushed a deep red. “But—but that’s absurd!” she protested, balling her fists in her skirts. “How could people say—just because we—Hubert, you can’t be serious!”

“No, he’s right,” Jeralt sighed, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t think it through.” He bowed his head. “I would never risk your reputation. Forgive me.”

“Jeralt, wait,” Sitri began, but with a nod to Hubert he turned and left, long sleeves flowing behind him. She watched him go and Hubert watched her good nature go with him. When Sitri faced him again, she wore an angrier expression than he’d ever seen.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she seethed, snatching up her cane. “I want to leave.”

“Then I’ll escort you upstairs.“

“No, Hubert, you won’t. _You’re_ not my husband either.”

Hubert grit his teeth. “Your Highness, it is my duty to guard you, and that includes guarding your honor. I am not the arbiter of all etiquette.”

“Yet you so love to enforce it!” Sitri fired back. “So I will find Miriam and she’ll take me upstairs, so that all of Garreg Mach won’t speculate about my virtue. I can’t believe I said these places were at opposite poles—how foolish! Enbarr and Garreg Mach are only different-sized cages.”

“Your Highness—”

He was wrong: three years in Adrestia had taught Sitri something. For when she hardened her voice, he could hear Anton in every word: “Don’t follow me, Hubert. That’s an order.”

* * *

There was no more reason to stay at the banquet, but Hubert knew he would only stew in his room if he retired for the night; at least the ballroom still had wine. He excused himself from the table when Queen Cornelia returned with some spellbound courtiers and retreated to the quietest corner he could find. From there he watched the ebb and flow of the dances, the students’ black dress uniforms all blending together like a cloud of swooping birds. He shrunk into the shadows when Ferdinand swanned by with a tall man from the Golden Deer; for once he wanted to indulge in being invisible.

“There you are!”

Hubert turned so fast that the wine sloshed in his cup, a large drop splashing down the back of his hand.

But this woman was unfamiliar: green-eyed, rubenesque, long chestnut curls flowing over her shoulders. She twirled the end of one lock around her finger slowly, the bracelets on her wrist jingling as they slipped down her arm.

“Hubert von Vestra,” she said, grinning up at him. “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me, but I don’t believe we’ve met. How can you be sure you have the right person?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She leaned against the wall—blocking his means of escape. “You match the description exactly: tall, handsome, typically found brooding in the furthest corner.”

Now both eyebrows went up. “Well, one of those things is false, but I’ll concede the other two.”

She giggled. “Really? You wouldn’t call yourself tall?”

She slunk closer. Her perfume was strong, and Hubert quickly ran it through his memory of the scents that were best at masking poisons. He certainly hoped this woman was intent on poisoning him; it would be much easier to deal with than the intention to keep making him blush.

He cleared his throat. “My lady—"

“Just ‘miss.’ Garreg Mach’s not all lords and ladies, you know.”

“Then miss—"

“Arnault, but Dorothea’s fine.”

Hubert wanted to huff. “Miss Arnault. If you were so set on finding me, there must be something you want from me. What is it?”

Releasing her curl, Dorothea took up playing with her bracelets, flicking them so that they spun and caught the light. Most silver, but one was made of fine gold.

She said, “I want you to pray for me.”

Hubert couldn’t help it. He laughed so hard that he spilled more wine.

“I’m serious!” Dorothea pouted. “It won’t take too much of your time, half an hour at most. There’s a little chapel nearby, just past the stairs with the tapestry of St. Cichol. No one bothers to patrol it this late in the year. I think you would find it very peaceful. A perfect place to worship undisturbed.”

“Now I can say for certain you have the wrong person, Miss Arnault,” Hubert said, still smiling. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the Goddess’ ear. Whoever gave you that description knows a very different Hubert von Vestra.”

Dorothea hummed, pursing her full lips. Then in one smooth motion, she reached out and swiped his wine from his hand.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “She told me you’re a very faithful man.”

She winked before raising his cup to her lips and walking away. Hubert was left blinking, clutching empty air. He dropped his hand, face red again, sorely hoping no one had been watching.

But when he lowered his arm, something bumped against his wrist. He raised his hand to his eyes and found a golden bangle.

Up close, he could make out the design: two eagle heads in filigree, their eyes set with twin rubies.

He had to remind himself not to run.

He found the chapel exactly where she described. After making sure the heavy door was bolted behind him, Hubert turned to discover the candles were already lit, bathing the small room in soft, orange light. The altar was decorated with only a faded cloth and two large votives at either end.

Sitting on top of it was Edelgard. The candlelight glinted off her coat buttons and gold epaulettes, brighter than jewels.

“Yesterday you promised to reconvene later,” she said, hopping down. “Did you forget?”

Hubert shook his head, watching her walk down the aisle towards him. “No.”

“Yet I had to force my hand to get you alone.” She glanced at the bracelet on his wrist. “Or Dorothea’s, rather.”

“In my defense, my lady, you’re rarely alone yourself.” He went to unclasp it so he could give it back, but struggled with the tiny latch. “I feel like I’ve unjustly stolen you.”

A soft rustle made him pause. When he glanced up, Edelgard was pulling off her gloves. “Hold these a moment, please,” she said as she tucked them into his coat pocket. Her freed fingers easily unfastened the bracelet for him. She slipped it back onto her own wrist. As she looked down to adjust her cuff, Hubert found his eyes kept returning to the glimpse of bare skin at the back of her neck, exposed in the gap between her upswept hair and high collar.

Sitri would think him such a hypocrite.

But hypocrisy did nothing to lessen the warmth that spread through his chest as Edelgard carefully took his hands in hers and said softly, “I know it’s been a long time. If you really don’t want to talk to me, I’d understand.“

It slipped out of his mouth before he could catch it: “It doesn’t matter how long. I always want to talk to you.”

Edelgard seemed stunned for a moment, but then she recovered with a taunt: “Yet you only send me such short notes.”

He fought down his embarrassment, remembering the torn page of the story book. “What’s the point in sending long ones? Obviously you got the meaning.”

“Oh, Hubert,” she sighed, “you really haven’t changed.” She let go of his hands and walked to the nearest pew, sweeping her cape aside to sit down. “Now, tell me, Master Steward,” she said with mock-imperiousness as she patted the space beside her. “What news of the Empire?”

* * *

What news of the Empire? Where to begin?

Clement an officer at Fort Merceus, Isengard newly wed to a daughter of House Noren. Bertholt and Baldwin each a head taller, and still growing. Margrite expecting her second child. Lady Rosine and Lady Ilse off to fetch Lady Gertrud from Aegir County, Lady Keterlyn’s ship on its way. How soon they would all arrive in Enbarr, how much they longed to see their El.

What news of the Empire? Of the Emperor?

“I’m sorry.” Hubert placed a hand on her knee, trying to offer comfort. Edelgard nodded, breathing deeply, and turned her head away, her profile outlined by the light of the altar candles.

“I knew he could only hold on so long,” she said in a faint voice. “I knew he could die any moment that I was here. I made my peace with it. Still…”

“Still,” Hubert said quietly.

And of her brother?

He took a breath before he delivered the answer:

“From what I know, very soon the mages will have enough blood of Sitri’s blood to produce an artificial Crest of Flames. Once it is implanted in the Prince—if it does not kill him—there will be war.”

At his side, Edelgard went very, very still.

“It will start with the Alliance,” he explained. “The Leicesten lords have always been disorganized, slow to agree and slower to act. First the navy will take our forces to the eastern coast, and then they will join troops marching north to take the Bridge of Myrddin. What counties don’t surrender will be chased to Derdriu, where a siege will drain them until they have no other choice.

“After the Alliance is Faerghus. It has long resisted invasion, but with a pronged approach, we may surround Fhirdiad from all sides. The key is to take Arianrhod first, then spring from Daphnel County over the mountains through Galatea.”

Edelgard made a noise of disbelief. “My brother thinks he can take back the Silver Maiden? After five hundred years of other emperors’ failures?”

“Your brother _knows_ he can. Do you remember the end of the Siege of Nuvelle? The Miracle of St. Macuil did not belong to St. Macuil after all. ”

Edelgard stared at him a moment, and then stood up. She began to pace down the chapel aisle, her red cape flowing behind her.

“So his mages bleed his wife in the dark, mold a false Crest of Flames, and by channeling their powers through his authority, the continent will be one Empire again,” she said slowly. “He will be a second Wilhelm. He’ll be Antonius the Great.”

“But he needs one last piece.” Hubert gestured to the chapel around them. “He will need Garreg Mach’s surrender. Or cooperation.”

“The Archbishop would never—”

“Not if she’s attacked first,” Hubert agreed. “But the Church doesn’t care if we battle each other. They didn’t come to our aid against Brigid and Dagda, did they? The Knights of Seiros are powerful, but they’re far outnumbered by the national armies. They wouldn’t stick out their necks against one of us unless they had the backing of another. So we will pass them politely by as we take back the east, the north—and then they will have nowhere else to run.”

Edelgard stopped pacing. “Anton will offer Rhea another deal,” she realized. “Sovereignty in Church lands and operations, as always. In exchange for…?”

Hubert steeled himself. As he removed the paper from his pocket, he confessed, “Lady Edelgard, I was not assigned this trip just to guard the Crown Princess. Nor did I come solely for your sake. Tomorrow, while everyone else is occupied for the length of the ceremony, the Prince Regent charged me to confirm the location of these.”

Edelgard took the paper from him and looked over the drawings. As she did, her eyes widened.

“No need. I’ll confirm,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve seen them.”

“The Crest Stones?” Hubert pressed. “You know where the Archbishop keeps them?”

“Yes. That’s where she took me the night you arrived: the Holy Tomb, far beneath the monastery foundations.” Her hands clenched at the edges of the paper. “She had a deal of her own to offer me. To bring me into the Order of the Holy Knights.”

Dame Catherine’s suspicious face flashed in his memory. “On what grounds?”

“That the bloodline of Seiros has grown too thin; the Crest has not been seen outside of my family in centuries. Since nobles only marry nobles, it has become too valuable for the elite to let anyone born with it go.” Edelgard gave a bitter laugh. “No one sends their Crested children to the nunnery as an offering anymore. When Rhea heard I was the insurance for Sitri, she took it as a sign from the Goddess. She had a relic selected for me already.”

She gave the paper back. Hubert folded it back up, smoothing the edges to hide how his hands wanted to shake. There was no other way to know but to ask.

“And will you accept that deal, Lady Edelgard? Stay here and become a Holy Knight?”

As Edelgard looked at him, he realized what had really changed about her appearance over time: her eyes were not like her mother’s anymore. They were not piercing arrows, but a battered shield. Guarded.

“They didn’t give me an axe just to wow tourney crowds,” she said firmly. “No. I have no wish to take lives in the Church’s name all my life.”

“If you did, I wouldn’t judge you for it.” Hubert swallowed. “I have…I have taken many myself, in your brother’s.”

He’d expected horror from her, disgust—anger, even, that he would kill not in defense, not to protect, but under orders. The world’s most devoted actor playing the most heinous part. How could his work compare to battling bandits, facing soldiers armed with swords and spells? Hubert plunged his dagger into unarmored backs. He poisoned cups of morning tea. When the masked vultures overstepped, he let his hungry magic do exactly what it pleased. _Accept the offer,_ he wanted to urge Edelgard, _take the power from her. No matter what the Church has you do, at least you won’t be the next neck on the great imperial chopping block._

But he hadn’t expected she would move closer. That she wouldn’t scorn him, but carefully, wearily rest her head against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Hubert,” she murmured. “How stupid I was, to think I could fix all this. I thought I was making some bold move in the game, yet all I did was hand our opponents all the pieces.”

Hubert brought his hand to her back. This time she didn’t stiffen, but melted further against him when he laid it there. His throat felt painfully tight as he insisted, “You’re not stupid. We still don’t know how this will play out—maybe the Crest of Flames can’t be made. Maybe the war will fail.”

“Maybe it will be worse?” She barked a mirthless laugh. “Maybe the Alliance and Faerghus will defeat us instead. And our Holy Mother Church will stand by until it’s time to divide the spoils. Whichever head bows the lowest will have her blessing to wear the imperial crown.”

It could have been the wine. It could have been the memory of her in the tourney, knocking Raphael down and then helping him back up. It could have been the flash of the Empress’ bracelet, the two eagle heads peeking out from under Edelgard’s cuff, ruby eyes gleaming. But whatever inspired it, the idea painted itself in Hubert’s head with bold, bright strokes. The solution so obvious, so clear.

“Maybe…” he said, “maybe a new crown is what the Empire needs.”

“You know someone who’d stand against both Anton and Rhea?” she countered drily, resting her chin on his coat to look up at him.

Slowly, Hubert ran his hand down her back until he found her arm, then her hand. He squeezed it once, firmly, as he looked into her eyes.

“I do,” he said.

Edelgard stared back. A moment passed, and then she stepped back, releasing him. She opened her mouth, but for a moment could not speak.

Finally, she said, “Hubert. That would be treason.”

“You were the only child born with the Crest of Seiros,” he argued. “In a different world, the line may have passed to you from the beginning.”

“Why should my Crest determine the course of my nation—”

“—And you have devoted far more to your education, your training, than I have ever seen from your brother. You’ve made friends—alliances!—across your Houses here at school. You inspire loyalty in people. You feel genuine care for those beneath you and wish to better their lives—”

“—So possessing basic empathy is what makes the best Emperor? You would pledge yourself to me just because I’ve shown you common kindness?”

“I would pledge myself to you for that alone, my lady. For nothing less.”

Edelgard turned her back to him. She was breathing heavily, trying to collect herself. He waited silently until as her shoulders steadied. Finally she faced him again, and still she did not look angry, not horrified.

“To pledge yourself to me would be treason,” she repeated. She took his hands again, squeezed them much harder than he had. “You know the consequences. You cannot stand here and insist you’d be glad to throw your life away for a gamble like this.”

“What should I be glad to throw my life away for, then?” Hubert demanded. The words began spilling out, so many years of what he’d bottled up, tried to bury. “To count a depleting Treasury, funneled into the court’s pockets? To arrange marriages for Crests like a farmer breeds cattle? To sit on a Council more rotten than a corpse dredged from the river? To serve a man who charges me to bleed his own wife like a trained leech, to keep her alive for research’s sake?

“I don’t have a life to throw away, Lady Edelgard. Mine was taken from me when I was six years old. And every waking minute since that day I have been nothing. No one. A body for the Empire to chew up and one day spit back out. Without you, I don’t think I ever would’ve known kindness. I would never have known it is far more powerful than fear and cruelty.

“That’s what I would give my life for. A kinder world. That’s worth a gamble. That’s worth everything.”

Edelgard said nothing. He watched thoughts form and flitter away across her furrowed brow, her scrunched nose. She made as if to speak again—

The chapel door rattled.

Hubert grabbed for her arm, already running through the very short list of locations he remembered well enough to warp them to. But as he readied the portal, Edelgard gripped his elbows and hissed, “Wait, wait! If it’s Seteth, he’d have a key.”

The door shook again. He strained to hear over the scrabbling sound against the wood, but he could make out something. A…a giggle?

_“I told you it’d be locked! We should’ve tried the Goddess Tower first.”_

_“Everyone’s after the Goddess Tower tonight, sweetheart, we’d have to battle for a spot. Just give me one more go; the lock’s old, after all, it might play nice.“_

It suddenly occurred to Hubert, like a hammer to the skull, why Dorothea had mentioned this chapel was patrolled other times of the year.

Edelgard’s hands slid from his elbows to his forearms. She had a slight tinge of pink on her cheeks as she cleared her throat, and then called out in a clear, sing-song tone, “Sorry! Already taken!”

The rattling stopped. Hubert thought he heard their would-be intruders groan.

 _“Damn. Goddess Tower it is.”_ Two quick knocks followed. _“Good luck!”_

Even after the footsteps faded away, his blush did not.

“We should get back,” Edelgard said quickly, letting go of him. “I haven’t kept track of time. Your guards might worry if you’re missing too long.”

“Right.” But their unfinished argument felt as taut as a rope tied between them. “My lady, I regret that I upset you by saying such things.”

She shook her head. “Don’t apologize for being honest, Hubert. Please.” She gestured to the door. “You should go first; give me a few minutes. Rhea already doesn’t care for you, and if she sees us together, she may think, you know…”

“That we’re up to something,” he finished. To attempt lightening the mood, he added, “And she’d be right.”

It had its intended effect: Edelgard snorted. But he hadn’t predicted she would also pause, then say, “I should be honest, too. I missed you, Hubert.”

It hit harder than a hammer. Than a blow with her axe.

“Like I said, my lady,” he managed to mumble back, “your kindness knows no limits.”

Before she could retort, he gave back her gloves that had sat forgotten in his pocket. He should’ve apologized again, for tainting their meeting with so much talk of death and corruption, for burdening her with things she was never meant to bear. But Hubert had exhausted all the honesty he was capable of that evening. He could only take her bare hand and kiss it again—hoping it would suffice—before he retreated.

* * *

The graduation ceremony was conducted with every bit of pageantry Hubert expected. Banners, flower petals, horns trumpeting from the ramparts. With her gilded mitre, Lady Rhea was indeed taller than all other cardinals, bishops, and priests. Her low voice that had so softly prayed over Sitri boomed throughout the cathedral, echoing like thunder. Cheers welcomed the students as they marched in formation over the cathedral bridge, their colored capes exchanged for clerical indigo, lined in white. No national ties, no creeds anymore but that of St. Seiros and her Holy Church.

The House Leaders had the duty of carrying the Academy’s ceremonial swords to the altar as Rhea preached of the holy virtues they represented. Hubert watched Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd process while carrying Spiritual Justice, followed by Claude von Riegan with Earthly Justice.

The blunted sword of Mercy stood tall and unwavering in Edelgard’s hands.

Time danced away, uncooperative. Three days in this place and yet he’d spoiled so much so quickly. Sitri gave him only short, polite answers as the guards cleared out the room, the carriage waiting to be packed. Hubert caught her looking at every face they passed in the halls, her expression almost pained.

As they began their final walk through the grounds, he leaned down to mutter in Miriam’s ear: “How was she the night of the banquet, after you took her back?”

Miriam blinked. “Took her where, Master Vestra?”

“Out of the ballroom,” he clarified. “She refused my escort and asked you instead.”

“Oh, yes! Well, I only took her some of the way, and she did seem a little agitated. But she calmed down the further we got from the crowd; when Bianka and I returned later, we found her already fast asleep.”

“What do you mean, ‘only part of the way?’” Hubert demanded. “Surely you did not let Your Highness walk alone, one day after a relapse?”

“Of course not!” Miriam hurried to say. “We ran into that kind Professor Eisner near the bridge, and he offered to see her to the cloister. Her Highness said he would hand her off to Ladislava there.”

“Ladislava wasn’t at the cloister,” he insisted. “That wasn’t her shift until morning.”

Miriam blinked at him, confused. “Her Highness was quite clear. Professor Eisner left, she said, and Ladislava took her to her room.”

The equation tallied itself in Hubert’s head.

The confrontation would have to wait—when they reached the carriages, the Archbishop was already waiting, Edelgard at her side.

“I’ve made my decision,” Rhea announced. “You will send word on the Emperor’s condition when it turns, and then Edelgard may visit through the mourning period. If not, I will send her in another year.” She looked to Sitri. “The original arrangement will remain. When there is an Heir born—”

“And what if her father dies before word arrives?” Sitri snapped.

Rhea looked aghast, then furious. For a moment Hubert wondered if she would raise her voice again to scold her. But it seemed Sitri’s outburst had startled even herself. The angry expression fell quickly from her face and she lowered her head, repentant.

“I-I’m sorry, El,” she said, “I don’t know what came over me. Please forgive me.”

“It’s alright. Death affects us all powerfully, in its own way.” Edelgard offered her hand, and Sitri took it. “Write to me anyway, good news or bad. That way another year won’t feel so long.”

Sitri nodded, still looking cowed. When Edelgard released her, she finally met Rhea’s glare.

“Goodbye, Holy Mother,” she said, bowing her head.

Rhea was silent. The pause thickened the tension in the air, until finally she muttered, “Until we meet again, my child.” Sitri walked away leaning heavily on her cane, as though the cold dismissal still weighed on her.

“Your Holiness,” Hubert bowed to Rhea first. “Lady Edelgard,” he bowed afterward, “congratulations again. I look forward to welcoming you back to Enbarr—whenever that may be.”

“Thank you, Hubert.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. To memorize how she looked, how she sounded, to try and capture something that would last. His hand found the hilt of his dagger again, the pronged eagle heads a familiar shape in his palm. He did not let his eyes stray to Rhea, lest she see the hatred in them. “Safe journey.”

Once inside, he knocked on the carriage roof, and with a lurch they began rolling down the road again, down the mountain. Rhea had gone, but Edelgard remained at the gates. He watched her shape grow smaller and smaller until the walls swept by and stole her from view.

* * *

The geraniums arrived three weeks later: huge, pink, and bewitched to smell twice as potent as usual. They sent the whole staff into a frenzy, the gossip traveling all around the palace before the bouquet even reached his office. No one could believe it—Master Vestra, notorious workhorse, infamous cynic, receiving flowers? From the opera house? From a _lady?_

Hubert had to chase away the grinning clerks and lock the door before he felt safe enough to dig out the slim strip of paper discreetly wrapped around one of the stems.

> _**20 Lone Moon** **–** I changed her mind. South by sail. Leaving on Founding Day. Intend to get my ribbon back._
> 
> _Short enough?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody!!!! how are you!!!! thanks for hanging around during my extremely long burnout after May, lmao. but I used this time to painstakingly crank the pining levels as high as the engine could go, so, I hope you have enjoyed c:
> 
> \- Hubert's got a promotion! "Master Steward" is adapted from [this role.](https://www.britannica.com/topic/lord-steward%20explanation%20of%20master%20steward) "Master" instead of "lord" bc his father is still alive, and therefore still holds the Marquis title and I didn't wanna get too confused calling multiple people "Lord Vestra."
> 
> \- Rhea’s not that tall in canon but why would I diverge from canon to begin with if not to fix this video game’s dragon woman design????? 
> 
> \- Rhea’s signet ring is based on the real pope’s [Piscatory Ring,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ring_of_the_Fisherman%20https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_of_the_Lake) mixed with the imagery of The Lady of the Lake. 
> 
> \- The earliest known pair of wearable eyeglasses date back to 13th-century Italy, but even ancient Romans used handheld glass lenses to aid reading magnification. Rhea is just a little behind the times… 
> 
> \- Ionius’ medical symptoms have previously not been intended to diagnose him with any specific rl hereditary disease, but in this chapter "white pus in his blood" was based on leukemia. Leukemia is possibly as old as cancer, which is Very Old, and there's some super interesting history on its early classification and treatments [here.](https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1046/j.1365-2141.2001.02411.x)
> 
> \- Lauds is the morning prayer in the monastic Liturgy of the Hours, typically starting around dawn or 5 am. 
> 
> \- The language I use for Faersh is Gaeilge/Irish! Please forgive any translation mistakes, as I don’t speak it myself. 
> 
> \- Boy oh BOY did I watch a lot of axe fights this summer. [Here is the one that inspired some of the movements of Edelgard v Raphael!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ad5RJ3TeKSE)
> 
> \- Despite being a popular cure-all treatment…basically everywhere, for a long while, [bloodletting was in fact banned by the Catholic Church in 1163](https://www.history.com/news/a-brief-history-of-bloodletting) (which is probably the only time those fellas ever made a great decision regarding treatments that should be medically policed…………) 
> 
> \- The canarie, or canario, is a dance of the 16th-17th centuries that even appears in Shakespeare’s works. It was usually danced by just one couple and perceived as being very flirtatious ;) There are SO MANY delightful reconstructions of this dance that I couldn’t pick just one to link, so!! [1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0r-2q2rLLH4) [2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtDyHrGdp6E) [3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jh-94sxuduI)
> 
> \- Remember the eagle bracelet? No? Have a peek at Chapter 3. “Is this fic just an increasingly elaborate ouroboros of referencing minor objects you brought up chapters ago” if you want me to stop using my fetish for the decorative arts for foreshadowing then you’ll have to kill me
> 
> \- The three virtue swords are based on [the ceremonial swords carried during the coronation of British monarchs.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_Jewels_of_the_United_Kingdom#Swords) They were some of the few objects that survived [a purge of the crown jewels during the English Civil War,](https://www.hrp.org.uk/tower-of-london/history-and-stories/the-crown-jewels/) and therefore are some of the oldest in the collection. I just think they’re neat :’)
> 
> me: you’re my flower language expert, pick a flower Dorothea would choose to send on Edelgard’s behalf with a secret message  
> Holly, friend extraordinaire: In Victorian times, geraniums symbolized foolishness and stupidity  
> me: (spits out whole glass of water) okay that’s the one


	7. Reunions. Spring and Summer 1183.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE:** This fic's rating has been changed from T to M
> 
> Caution warnings for this chapter: graphic violence and some sexual implications (but nothing explicit!)

Hubert knew from the look on his father’s face alone.

“Your Highness.”

“I’m busy, Gotfrid.” 

“Lady Edelgard has arrived in Enbarr.”

Anton looked up from the tariff reports in disbelief. “I don’t recall any notice from the Archbishop that she was sent back?”

“There was none, my lord. It is a surprise visit; she informed no one. She’s with the ladies now, taking tea.”

Anton’s face reddened with irritation. “And you didn’t see fit to inform me the second she came through the gate?”

Hubert’s father had on his stoniest, most unreadable face, but Hubert could see the indignity boiling beneath. “I regret to say that I did not know myself. Apparently, she ‘hopped the fence’ to enter the palace grounds.”

Hubert was quick to catch Anton’s thrown quill before ink could splatter across every document on the desk and set it carefully on its blotter as his master rose stormed to the door. Hushed, rapid words were exchanged between him and Hubert’s father. The telltale _thunk_ of a body being shoved roughly into a wall did not stop Hubert from pushing the chair in neatly and straightening the abandoned pile on the desk. When Anton barked, “Hubert,” he was at his side in just a few strides, ready to match the furious pace that would take them from the prince’s office to the consorts’ wing.

He spared his father one passing glance. _What?_ it said. _I severed the attachment like you asked. She can’t control me, and neither I her. Exactly as you wanted._

Behind Anton’s back, he smiled.

* * *

Stepping into the tearoom was like stepping back in time—to see the Imperial Family, together again.

The consorts had streaks of grey peeking through their hair, but their gowns were still cut with a discerning, fashionable eye. Lady Gertrud still took her tea with two lemons instead of one. Lady Keterlyn still turned up her nose at raisin biscuits. Lady Rosine and Lady Ilse, once the worst of enemies, were now laughing together as the oldest of friends.

The children were not children anymore. Lady Margrite kept one eye on her eldest daughter as the toddler squealed, chased by Lord Clement in his officer’s coat. Her husband and Lady Isengard’s wife chatted with Lady Gertrud about their travels. Lords Bertholt and Baldwin were entertaining their mother and Lady Rosine with a story of their latest antics at school.

The room was bursting with laughter and conversation, and yet Hubert was struck with the emptiness that lingered. His memories were fading pictures now, blurry at the edges: Lady Kristina dancing on her wedding day; Lords Fabian and Ernst and Symon measured for their uniforms, joking about the medals they would earn.

The face of the Empress, stiff and cold in her curtained bed. Lady Patricia’s pleas as she was dragged away.

“Are you sure? I’m afraid I’ll drop him. I think Baldwin still has a dent in his head, actually, from my last attempt.”

“You won’t drop him. Keep your arms like this, El.”

Edelgard’s rough traveling clothes clashed with the velvet chair she was sitting in. Her boots were scuffed at the toes as they tapped on the thick Almyran carpet. She looked nervous as Isengard carefully placed Margrite’s newborn son in her arms.

“See?” Her sister gently patted the baby’s cheek once the transfer was complete. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

Edelgard looked down at her sleeping nephew, then swiveled her head towards her eldest sister. “Oh dear. He’s got the Boramas chin, Greta.”

Margrite frowned. “And what’s wrong with our chin?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Edelgard grinned. “Only that bringing it up always riles a Boramas.”

“Can you believe it? Your Aunt El has been here barely an hour and already she’s started a war,” Clement teased as he tickled his squealing niece.

“I still can’t believe she came by ship!” Bertholt added. “You hate sailing!”

Edelgard argued, “I only had to hate it for a day and a half. More tolerable than seven days in a carriage.”

 _“I_ still can’t believe she got in here at all,” Baldwin piped up. “If I were a guard I would’ve tackled you on sight, dressed like a commoner! You’re lucky Anton didn’t sic Hubert on you.”

Clement barked a laugh. “Goddess in Heaven, can you imagine? Hubert would’ve swatted her like a bug!”

“Hubert would do no such thing,” Edelgard sniffed. “He knows I’d have the advantage. And besides, it’s rude to talk that way when he’s here in the room.”

The entire family turned at once to look. Upon spotting him, Lady Gertrud actually jumped in her seat.

“Really?” Edelgard laughed. “Did no one else see him standing there?”

Hubert kept his expression blank as he bowed to the gathered Hresvelgs; to smile at her now would be too dangerous. Dutifully he announced, “My lords and ladies, His Imperial Highness the Prince Regent has arrived.”

They bowed and curtsied down the line as Anton strode in, but when his eyes fell on Edelgard she merely inclined her head, still sitting comfortably.

“You must forgive my manners, Anton,” she said, shrugging slightly to indicate the baby. “I don’t want to wake little Julius.”

Anton’s lips twitched in what might have been called a smile, had Hubert not known him so well. “No matter, El. I don’t require supplication for just a short visit. Though a letter might have been nice.”

“Oh, but it was worth it to see Lady Ilse’s face when I jumped out from behind the bust of Lycaon IV.”

“Still,” he continued, “you’ve left the staff unprepared. Gotfrid may have to put you up in the guest wing, unless your sisters wouldn’t mind keeping you in their apartments.”

“Oh, the guest wing will be fine,” Edelgard said. “I wouldn’t want to bother Isengard and Greta the whole summer.” She glanced down at the baby again, who was starting to rustle in her arms. “They have enough family on their plates as it is.”

A muscle in Anton’s jaw twitched. For a moment the whole room was frozen, until Lord Clement spoke up with genuine astonishment, “The Archbishop is letting you stay the summer?”

The baby was waking now, making short cries of protest. Edelgard bounced him to try quieting him as she explained, “Through the end of the Blue Sea Moon. Unless you think Father’s condition will stabilize sooner?”

Anton pinched the bridge of his nose, looking more vicious by the second. _“Why_ is the Archbishop letting you stay the summer?”

“Because I asked her.” In spite of Edelgard’s attempts, Julius began to cry louder. She stood up at last, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she rocked him to no avail. “I know what you’re thinking, but I swear there was no trickery. I told her I would return at the end of the Blue Sea Moon, and I will. It didn’t require a whole contract to settle.”

“Then why, last month, was she so keen to say no?” Anton argued. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the screaming baby. “No trickery? I don’t believe you. You are meddling in affairs above your head with this little stunt, El, and the consequences will be—” As another shriek pierced the room, he bellowed, _“And would you shut that child up!”_

“Sure. Here,” Edelgard snapped, and without further warning, she shoved the baby into her brother’s arms.

And the moment Anton had him, his nephew belched a huge mouthful of spittle all over them both.

It was immediate chaos. Margrite leapt up to take back her son before Anton could hurl him away, while the consorts sent the footmen scurrying for towels. Clement and the twins laughed uproariously. Isengard clapped her hands over her mouth in shock, but now seemed to be keeping them there lest she let her own laughter escape.

In all the tumult, no one paid attention to Edelgard as she darted through the crowd and to the door.

“Hubert, you should fetch my brother a clean shirt,” she said loudly. Subtly, she gave his sleeve a sharp tug. “As quickly as possible. And Margrite, I’ll go find your wet nurse.”

“By your leave, my lord,” Hubert made sure to add. Anton paid him no attention, unable to break free from Lady Ilse as she dabbed at his stained doublet with a handkerchief.

Hubert made sure to walk a respectable pace behind Edelgard while they were still within sight of the tea room. The moment they turned a corner, she snatched his hand.

 _“Go,”_ she hissed, dragging him into a run. _“Go, go, go!”_

* * *

They raced as fast as they could, shoes sliding on the marble floors. When he found the closest servants’ passage, Hubert had to yank Edelgard to him fast lest she skid out of control. In the narrow tunnels, she held tight to his hand as they wove around the bewildered servants, barely avoiding collisions with laundry piles and chamber pots. “As you were,” Hubert barked, and every eye on them quickly looked the other way.

When they burst into the deserted antechamber of the Emperor’s quarters, the momentum of their wild sprint drove Edelgard right into him. Hubert grabbed her by the elbows to keep his balance lest they crash right to the floor. He worried why her wheezing was broken by odd hiccups.

Then he realized Edelgard was _laughing_ , and she didn’t need to hold him so tightly just to stay upright.

“You’re evil,” he panted, finally hugging her back. “Throwing your own nephew to the wolves.”

Edelgard raised her head to look up at him, eyes gleaming. “How do you know Julius wasn’t my accomplice? Maybe he agreed to the plot from the start.”

“An infant revolutionary,” Hubert chuckled. Edelgard grinned back.

Since she had embraced him first, Hubert expected she’d also be the first to let go. But she didn’t—so there they remained. Her hair still smelled like sharp, dried salt from the sea air. Her arms fit snugly around his back. Hubert felt warm from head to foot, and his heart was still racing. _From running,_ he could’ve lied, but lying felt like just another chore anymore. Lying was all he ever did. Couldn’t he steal one moment of truth: that he was happy to hold her again?

A small noise roused his attention. Edelgard was still looking up at him with a questioning expression.

“I was thinking that I can send a page to get the nurse, but I’ll still have to get your brother another set of clothes to throw off any suspicion,” he said. “But I’ll find another way for you to see your father again soon.”

She blinked, confused, and then understanding washed over her. “Oh. Yes, that’s clever.” She loosened her arms, bringing her hands to rest in his. “Your father will be watching us, I expect.”

“Of course he will,” he grumbled. “But I’ll find a solution for that too. For now, though…” He nodded to the bedchamber doors. “You’d better make it quick.”

The curtains were closed when they entered the Emperor’s bedchamber, casting the whole room in a grey, dusty pallor. The air smelled stale, tinged with the harsh notes of herbal poultices and root teas. Hubert had often wondered over the years why Anton did not claim these apartments for himself, when he’d replaced his father in all but name, but watching Edelgard’s face fall as she surveyed the room answered the question: there was no glory in rushing a dying man out of his tomb.

The Emperor didn’t stir as they approached. Edelgard had to call his name several times, squeezing his thin hand, before his eyes cracked open and slowly drifted to her face.

“Patricia,” he whispered.

Hubert’s stomach twisted. But Edelgard only squeezed her father’s hand again, shifting closer to him.

“A good guess, Father,” she said softly, “but wrong answer. Would you like a hint?”

The Emperor blinked slowly. From his glassy expression, Hubert would’ve guessed he wasn’t even fully awake. But gradually, his grey eyes became unclouded. His slack mouth opened to say,

“No, I don’t need one, El. My El.”

Hubert didn’t listen to what was said between father and daughter. He left to stand guard at the door, hearing each tick of the clock as loud as a tolling bell. When he could no longer make excuses to stretch her time, he turned to give Edelgard a warning glance. She kissed her father’s ring before murmuring her goodbye.

When she joined him at the door, she told Hubert, “He asked for you. He has a request.”

“What for?” She only shook her head.

The Emperor’s eyes were still clear as Hubert approached, but his breathing was labored, as though even a short conversation was too strenuous.

Hubert bowed. “Lady Edelgard said you have a request of me, Your Majesty?”

The Emperor’s voice was too quiet for him to hear. Hubert had to bend nearly in half to catch his words:

_“Her blood. They must not spill her blood.”_

Hubert froze. The Emperor panted, his bony hands clenching the sheets.

“Please,” he begged. “After I’m gone, they’ll come for her. You must not let them. You must not give them another Crest.”

“I won’t,” Hubert vowed. “I will do everything in my power, Your Majesty, to keep Lady Edelgard safe.”

He held the Emperor’s gaze, and for a moment he saw the man Ionius once was: the ruler, the lawmaker. The father. But then with a long sigh, the Emperor’s eyelids fluttered shut again, his head sank back into the pillow. Hubert waited until his breathing evened back into sleep before bowing once more. He guided Edelgard out, trying not to notice her pained glance at the ghost they left behind.

* * *

Hubert buried her purple ribbon between the piles of bedlinens the chambermaids brought to the guest room. But that night it returned, wrapped tightly around the fork that accompanied his dinner, delivered to the Household office after hours. The kitchen boy wouldn’t look him in the eye, even though Hubert was the only occupant this late.

The message was scratched into the silk with a sharp-nibbed pen. The ink had bled a little at the edges of the letters, but he could still read:

> _Library. 11._

He arrived at the very stroke of the hour. Edelgard was already waiting at the reading table, dressed not in nightclothes but her dinner dress and walking cloak. She rose from her chair with a smile.

“It’s a lovely night,” she said, holding out her hand. “What do you say to a stroll?”

On her instructions, he warped them a few streets shy of Market Square, the popular center of the city. There were more people out late than Hubert expected. He tightened his grip on Edelgard’s hand as she led him out of the alleys toward the main road.

“Relax,” she reassured him. “They’re coming from the Opera House. _Dafne’s Triumph_ is playing, and it’s supposedly terrible. We won’t be the only nobles desperately looking for a tavern tonight.”

“But I’m not wearing a coat, and you look much richer,” he grumbled. “I look suspicious.” Edelgard rolled her eyes and threaded her arm through his elbow.

“Just pretend you’re enjoying my company, and you won’t be. I highly doubt we’re the first pair of lady and servant to ever sneak out after dark.”

Hubert was grateful that the night hid his blush.

The tavern they entered was already packed, music and laughter spilling out of the open door into the narrow street. Hubert couldn’t spot any free seats at the tables, but Edelgard flagged down a barmaid. Whatever she whispered into the girl’s ear was lost in the noise, but he didn’t miss the small pouch of coins that was slipped from hand to apron pocket. With a curt, “Follow me, miss,” the barmaid turned and slipped through the crowd, weaving between the crush of bodies and chairs so deftly that Hubert felt a little dizzy keeping up. He focused on following the top of Edelgard’s head, holding the back of her cloak as though afraid the current would tug her away.

They reached a door at the back of the dining room. The barmaid left without a word as soon as they were through. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving them in darkness; Hubert was hit with the strong smell of cheese and aging wood. A storeroom?

“That must be Edie.”

“A-Are you sure?”

“Who else would it be? The rest of us are already here.”

“I told you that we should’ve come up with a code word!”

“So you could shout it loud enough to call the Imperial Guard?”

Edelgard sighed. “Yes, it’s me. Are we planning to conduct this whole meeting blind?”

A glyph brought a fire spell to life, and a pair of lanterns flared shortly after. Hubert found himself facing a wall of barrels, a stock shelf of cheeses and dried meat, and six other people huddled around a cracked table.

“Hubert,” Edelgard said, looking up at him proudly, “I’d like you to meet my friends.” To the group, she gestured, “Everyone, I’m sure you’ve heard me mention Master Vestra of the—”

“—Imperial Household, Master Steward, Secretary Extraordinaire, Butler of the Goddess, and so on.” A moss-haired man with tired eyes cut himself another piece of cheese. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned him once or twice.”

“Very interesting.” The woman next to him squinted as she studied Hubert’s face, and suddenly he remembered the proud eyes of the Princess of Brigid, staring Anton down. “He does not look as I imagined him.”

“What did you think he looked like?” prompted Caspar von Bergliez—easy enough for Hubert to recognize all these years later, even without his usual duel bruises.

“Somewhat more—ah, I am not sure how to say. Perhaps different hair.”

“Are we sure we can trust him?” A head popped up over the Princess’ shoulder; another nervous woman was crouched behind her, but badly hidden.

“Of course!” Ferdinand boomed. “Hubert von Vestra is one of the most loyal, most dedicated, most hard-working, most thorough people I have ever known—”

“—And I’m sure one of the most patient, to have known you so long at all,” drawled Miss Arnault. She nodded to the empty chairs awaiting them at the table, pushing her long hair back over her shoulder. “Well, come on. Are we going to plan a revolution or not?”

* * *

It was not a revolution yet, Edelgard kept insisting. It was a precaution.

“He may have war plans in place, but there’s no real proof at this time that the Crown Prince intends to act on them,” she said firmly. “Nor proof that he is any closer to acquiring a Crest of Flames.”

“But if he _does,_ we must be able to swiftly intercept,” Ferdinand added. “We are, after all, the heirs of the most prominent Ministers on the Council. We’d have a significant influence if we took our families’ seats. Prince Antonius would be hindered significantly should all of us refuse to yield on a war declaration, and then any war of his would be stopped before it began.”

Miss Arnault crossed her arms, looking doubtful. “‘Just swapping chairs with your father wouldn’t grant you influence, Ferdie. The Prince could accept your refusal on the eve of invasion and then watch you swing from the scaffold the next morning.”

“We could all be hanged just for talking about this!” moaned Bernadetta von Varley; Hubert was still having a difficult time connecting her frightened face to her father’s ever-scowling one. “What if we actually have to fight? How are seven of us supposed to win against—” she waved her arms, gesturing to an invisible crowd of enemies encircling them in the tavern storeroom, “—all of Adrestia?!”

“Eight of us,” Hubert corrected her. “Slightly better odds.”

“No,” Edelgard barked. “Seven.”

Hubert could feel everyone’s eyes turn to him. But he couldn’t look away from Edelgard.

“Should you be connected with this plot in any way, Hubert,” she said, “Anton won’t be angry. He’ll be wrathful. Discovering a traitor so close to him, so loyal, will break him. He’d never believe you acted alone; the whole Household would be suspect, and you know he would spare no one.”

Hubert grit his teeth. Edelgard held his gaze a moment longer before turning to address the entire group.

“I asked for your help knowing that all of you are devoted to saving this land from the grip of a hostile emperor. I want you to make your choices freely. But I have one demand: that no matter the consequences, you will not reveal Hubert’s involvement. In doing so, you’d spare another hundred innocents from needless bloodshed.” She swallowed. “And you'd ensure that one person would remain alive to continue our cause, should the rest of us fail.”

The others were silent. Then, one by one, they nodded their assent.

The meeting went on. But whatever was said, Hubert barely heard a word of it.

When they finally left the tavern, their conspirators scattering into the alleys to make their own ways home, Edelgard took his arm again. Instead of asking him to warp, she started walking, setting their pace at a steady stride. They crossed through Market Square, passing the empty shops, giving a few drunken citizens room to stumble out of their path in the street. Edelgard was right: on a warm spring night, no one cared to take stock of who was enjoying the delights of Enbarr.

Finally, she spoke up:

“You’re trying to form an argument, but don’t bother. You know that I’m right.”

“I told you, I understand the risks,” he snapped back. “I’m prepared to die. I shouldn’t be more important than any of the others.” _Than you._

She snorted. “You’re prepared to die, but apparently not prepared to treat me as your future sovereign. Should worst come to worst, if I order you to stand back and save yourself, it’s your duty to obey.”

“You have a gross misunderstanding of the actual relationship between an emperor and a minister, then.”

“Do I?” Edelgard stopped and stepped back to look at him. She did not blink as she spoke in a clear, firm voice, “Hubert von Vestra, as your liege, I forbid you to die for me.”

“You cannot command—”

“But I am.” She lifted her hand, eyes still locked on his. “Now, I believe vassals mark their pledges with a certain sign.”

Hubert glared at her. The sounds of laughter coming down the street made him tense, but she didn’t flinch.

“The longer you take to do it, the stranger we’ll look standing here.” Edelgard wiggled her fingers. “Come on.”

With a growl, Hubert snatched her hand. She didn’t have a signet ring, so only the cool silk of her glove met his lips. It could barely be called a respectful kiss; his father would’ve had a dozen critiques. But Edelgard gave him a satisfied nod and linked her arm with his again.

“It’s still a precaution,” she said. “No one is going to draw swords yet—nor at all, if I can help it.”

“With respect, my lady,” he replied, “never in history has there been a bloodless coup. The sword will have to be drawn sooner or later.”

“Then I choose later,” she said, and pulled him along.

* * *

Spring had arrived in full force. The olive trees began to bloom, covering the hills of Enbarr with white buds. Musicians fought for the pick of the best street corners, sometimes arguing louder and longer than they played. The palace maids were already gossiping about who they would court for the Garland Festival, even though it was some weeks away.

In spite of the sunlight pouring through the windows and the sweet smell of lilies from the fresh bouquet on the vanity, Sitri’s expression darkened the moment Hubert entered the room. To the casual observer, it was not much of a notable change; since Garreg Mach, she’d been more stone-faced than ever. But Hubert could tell. He tried not to let it sting.

“Your husband awaits you at tea, Your Highness.”

“What a surprise,” Sitri mumbled, hitching her shawl closer around her shoulders as she stood. “I assumed he’d ‘forget’ yet again.”

Hubert stood at the foot of the gazebo while the serving staff flitted around the table like hummingbirds, refilling cups, bringing fresh cakes on gilt plates. The Crown Prince and Princess were safe in the shade, but he felt his own neck start to warm under the glare of the spring sun, and his black clothes didn’t help. By the end of tea, he’d probably be roasted red.

“You’re not hungry, dearest?” Anton said behind him. “You know you should keep up your figure. When your appetite is low, your health will follow suit.”

“I know,” his wife said quietly. “I will have another cake, if it pleases you.”

Anton grunted approvingly. The sounds of taking tea resumed, interspersed with the usual stilted conversation between the married couple: how was Sitri feeling of late? Was Antonius quite busy this time of year? What was that new play running next month, were they expected to attend? Should they refuse that week’s ball at Lady Ghardner’s in favor of going to Lady Terion’s the following month instead?

“And how is El?”

Anton’s teacup clinked harshly on its plate. “What?”

“El. Your sister.” Sitri’s napkin rustled. “She’s been here six weeks now. Has the Archbishop asked after her?”

“No.”

“Well, have you written her about it?”

“I haven’t the time.”

“I just thought, if she’s going to stay so long, it would suit the agreement if I could go back to Garreg Mach while she—”

Anton’s hand landed heavily on the table. “You will not.”

For a moment the only sounds in the garden were the birds, chirping happily as they darted between bushes and trellises. Then Sitri shifted in her chair.

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “You’re right, you haven’t the time. I’m sure Her Holiness will write sooner or later.”

Hubert remained at his post. He could feel a drop of sweat forming along his forehead. He squinted his eyes against the light.

“…There is another matter that I want to discuss with you,” Sitri ventured cautiously.

“Yes?”

“A matter of delicacy.” Sitri’s shoes scuffed nervously against the gazebo floor. “Best discussed alone.”

Hubert stayed put while the other servants took their leave. Watching them make their way back to the palace, he felt almost as surprised as Anton must have been when Sitri dared to assert, _“Truly_ alone, Antonius. Please.”

“Very well,” Anton agreed, if reluctantly. “Hubert, I will summon you again when we’re finished.”

Hubert turned to bow, folding his hands behind his back—hopefully neither of his masters saw them spark as he readied a spell. _**I will hear what you hear,**_ he cast, weaving the words into an invisible thread and the thread into a net, and as he walked away, he brushed his fingers along the leaves of the bushes that bordered the gazebo. The spell anchored there and trailed behind him as he put distance between him and the gazebo. He took shelter in the long, cool shadows of the hedge walls some plots away.

 _“Now then, dearest,”_ he heard Anton say, like a whisper carried on the wind, _“what is it you wish to discuss?”_

_“I think it’s time we tried for a child again.”_

_“Oh.”_ Anton paused. Then he laughed. _“Well, how unexpected! I admit you had me worried, looking as serious as you are!”_

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to ask, and you don’t like when such things are brought up in front of the staff.”_

_“But what brought this on? The last time my doctors were quite insistent on waiting until your bleeding was regular again, and you know that your good health is the first priority in order to accomplish our goal. Have your spells ceased? You didn’t seem well at all when you returned from Garreg Mach.”_

_“I’m fine. I just feel it is time.”_

_“I see. But I would feel better if you had another examination to make sure you’re ready—”_

A chair scraped hard against the floor as someone suddenly left their chair. There was a clatter of silverware falling from the tea table, maybe a cup rolled on its side. After a long moment of silence, Hubert could hear panting, the harried rustle of fabric smoothed.

 _“See?”_ Sitri breathed, raggedly—desperate. _“I’m ready. Let’s try now.”_

Hubert snapped his fingers to sever the spell. The warm afternoon couldn’t touch him now; dread had turned his blood to ice.

* * *

They met with the others erratically, the better to throw off anyone who could sniff out a pattern. Sometimes they went together, sometimes apart. Hubert hated the latter; he stormed through the city streets like a gladiator readying himself for the arena, head swimming with images of Edelgard’s throat slit in some darkened alley. It made him feel awkward to wait with the others whenever he arrived before she did. Bernadetta always flinched whenever he looked in her direction, like a rabbit trying not to be noticed by a hawk.

“How do we know if he’s even on our side?” she whispered once, even though by the Garland Moon Hubert had seen this little group more regularly than he saw some of the palace staff. “Edelgard said the Minister of the Imperial Household is dangerous, but he could be feeding all of this to his own father!”

Caspar replied, “Honestly, I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Against Bernadetta’s fervent protests, he leaned over the table and called out, “Vestra! How do we know you’re on our side?”

Hubert touched the hilt of his dagger under the table, feeling the beaks of the twin eagles under his thumb. “Because if I weren’t, none of you would have lived beyond our first meeting.”

Linhardt shrugged. “Maybe you’re playing a long game. Maybe your father needs more proof of our rebellion before he could have the judge’s stamp to hoist our severed heads above city gates.”

A dry laugh escaped Hubert’s throat. “Please. My father would gladly take your heads first and forge the seal later.” He looked at Bernadetta, even though she seemed to want to look anywhere else. “And for what it’s worth, I didn’t choose to be his son.”

Bernadetta bit her lip, holding down at her own hands. The conversation ended there as Edelgard arrived at last.

The biggest problem their revolution faced was the army—rather, their lack of one. Not counting the Imperial Guard stationed at the palace, Anton could call on troops from the nearby forts to come to his aide, or even pluck sailors from the naval post in Enbarr Harbor if need was dire. Even if they caught him and the Council of Ministers by surprise, there was no guarantee that the troops would surrender loyalty and accept Edelgard’s rule without complaint. But to court allies within the army would be time-consuming and dangerous; any officer looking to advance in rank would not hesitate to turn in a traitor and reap the rewards.

“Soldiers I could bring from Brigid could take the palace, but not hold against invasion,” Petra said. “We are still recovering from the war. My grandfather is not willing to make another costly mistake, and he will not trust Edelgard’s word on granting independence until she has the crown.”

“Asking the Church for more Knights to meddle in Adrestian affairs is obviously out of the question,” Dorothea grumbled. “They’d probably overthrow _us_ right after.”

“Why do we keep avoiding the best solution?” Ferdinand pressed. He addressed Edelgard directly: “You know that your brother and the Church fear the same thing: the nations banding together under their own authority, not the Archbishop’s. So why won’t we turn to Claude and Dimitri and bring them to our side? Convince them to recognize you as the new Princess Regent of Adrestia, so that all three of us might avoid war?”

Edelgard didn’t answer at first. The table was quiet, watching as she collected her thoughts.

Then she answered, “It might be possible, if it were only Claude and Dimitri we had to persuade. But the Alliance is not just Claude, nor is the Kingdom just Dimitri. Even if they were to support me, they’d have to convince their own advisors and councils to back us. It would be put to vote—‘Should we send our forces south? Should we spend our own coin and our own soldiers to put a ninth daughter on the throne? Should we believe the Crown Prince’s frail wife really bears the Crest of the Goddess? Or should we sit back and watch as our oldest rival devours its own tail in a succession squabble that we can take advantage of?’”

She held out her hands as though weighing two sides of a scale. “Imagine you were a lord of Faerghus or the Alliance, and your heir, fresh from the schoolyard and full of big ideas, brought such a proposal before you. Which option sounds more appealing?”

Ferdinand did not raise the topic again.

But an idea stuck in Hubert’s mind, and it itched at him for the rest of the meeting. After the others left, he caught Edelgard’s arm and managed to convince her not to go back alone.

“Are you like this with Anton too?” she teased him. They took a route that wound along the edge of the Great Canal. In the dark water, he could see the glittering reflection of the distant palace that loomed beyond. “Do you start growling whenever he leaves your sight?”

“Your brother isn’t a woman out late at night, wandering around the city.”

“Should my Crest ever suddenly evaporate from my blood and leave me powerless, I do carry a knife, if it soothes you.”

“I’m not worried about street thugs. I’m worried about—” Hubert realized that the shapeshifters had no name, to his knowledge. He settled on, “—Other things that lurk in the dark.”

They walked on. Small waves lapped against the canal walls. A dove answered another’s call from some unseen roof. Edelgard’s head twisted to the side, searching for it, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

She frowned at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Clearly something was funny.”

“It’s just that you’re always doing that.”

“And what on earth am I doing?”

“Looking for things,” he explained. “You’re always trying to find something that no one else pays attention to. You would crane your neck just like that when you were a child, hoping to discover some secret in the margins of a room.”

Edelgard pouted. “I don’t see why that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” he assured her. “I like that you do it.”

“Yet you mock me!”

He chuckled again. “Well I can’t help that, my lady, no more than you can stop looking.”

She dug her elbow into his side as though aiming to push him into the canal. But her eyes twinkled, her lips pressed together in an obvious attempt to hide a grin, so he knew the threat had no weight.

Suddenly Hubert felt something clench in his chest—something that told him he had to say it.

“Lady Edelgard,” he said, “you should run from here.”

The mirth left her at once.

“Hubert?” she said, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You should flee the Empire. Get far out of your brother’s reach, and spend the rest of your life somewhere else.”

“But I don’t understand.” She clenched her fists at her sides. “That wouldn’t solve anything we’re trying to fix!”

“It wouldn’t, but it would keep you alive,” he insisted. “You wouldn’t have to leave Fódlan if you don’t want to, provided we could make some kind of arrangement. I don’t know either of them well, but Prince Dimitri and Master Riegan both seemed amenable options. I’m sure their courts have matches lined up already, but who could compete with an Imperial princess? In Faerghus, you’d have a sizable influence as Queen—and knowing of your brother’s future plans, you have a very good chance to thwart the war early.”

Edelgard stared, her eyes wide with rage—or horror? She stepped closer, glaring up at him, “Hubert! You cannot be seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting!”

“Of course I’m serious!” he argued. “Your uncle wasn’t a fool back then, even if he didn’t know the full extent of the corruption. He knew that taking you to Fhirdiad and tying you to another court would keep you safe!”

“Well I don’t want to be _safe_ in Fhirdiad!” Edelgard yelled. “I want to be _free_ in Adrestia!”

Hubert didn’t think he had ever seen her so angry before. Something was boiling in him too, something knotted and burning that he couldn't quite define. Edelgard held her ground, glaring up at him, daring him to continue. He wanted to scream back at her until she listened to reason. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to—

He wanted to kiss her.

Wouldn’t that be more convincing? More urgent proof that she mattered most? How easy it would be: all he had to do was lean down, pull her close, and press his mouth to hers. It could be done in those three simple steps, less than one movement of a dance. Her waist would fit between his hands. Her hair would be smooth between his fingers. Her lips would be warm, and Hubert’s throat ran dry at the very thought.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted it so badly he could hardly breathe. And in spite of the simplicity of it, the sheer force of his want seemed to paralyze his every muscle. _Just three steps._ He stared at Edelgard’s mouth and did not move an inch. And—still furious—neither did she.

“I will not run.” She spoke quietly, but each word was etched with resolve. “I will not abandon the Empire. I will not stop fighting until we have a kinder world.” He watched her throat tighten as she swallowed. “If that’s what you still want, then you will have to sacrifice my safety.”

Three steps. He was rigid in place as he replied, “You forbade me to die for you. It’s not fair that I can’t do the same.”

Her eyes were sharp, and strong, and beautiful. They pierced straight to his heart.

“Nothing ever is,” she said.

With that, she turned away and kept walking.

Hubert stayed far, far behind.

* * *

In his bed late that night, he held _The Thrice-Slain Knight,_ tracing the cracked spine and peeling leather cover. The pages, darkened with age, crackled as he flicked through them until he reached the very last.

✦ ✧ ✦

**E. v H. H. v V.**

✦ ✧ ✦

“You’re such a fool,” he accused his small, slanted letters. “You picked the worst possible time to fall in love with her.”

A knock rattled the door.

Hubert tossed the book back into his mother’s dowry chest, burying it between the layers of fabric before kicking the whole chest back under his bed. Anton had granted his request to leave his father’s apartments years ago, but the new room still didn’t feel safe. The knock came again, more frantic, as Hubert struggled to get his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown.

 _“What?”_ he growled as he yanked open the door. He expected to find a servant; someone with yet another problem that would cost them their position if they went to the real Minister of the Household, instead of the more merciful son.

Instead, he found Edelgard.

He was so surprised that for a second, he imagined his own thoughts had summoned her there. But then he realized something was amiss. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn to the meeting, but her hair was loose and wild, as though she’d rushed over right after taking out her pins. Her face was drained white—the pallid shade of someone who’d been through a great shock.

She pushed past him without waiting to be invited in. Hubert almost crushed his own fingers in his haste to close the door.

“My lady!” he hissed. “If anyone sees you here, our entire plan may as well go up in smoke!”

Edelgard thrust her hand into her skirt pocket and withdrew a crumpled letter. The plain wax seal was already broken. Her arm shook as she held it out.

“Help me,” she said. “It’s from my mother.”

* * *

_**20 Garland Moon** _

_My darling El,_

_I have wanted to pen this letter for so long, but never had the courage. I told myself that it was to keep you safe. The more years passed, the more memories faded, the better chance you had to leave behind my broken legacy. The Empire, as you know, does not easily forgive._

_But it’s your forgiveness that I desire above all. If you are ever blessed with motherhood, perhaps then you will understand the pain I feel being apart from you. Instead you’ve had to live with the pain of being alone—and if that has caused you to hate me, it is a hate well-deserved. But if you still have a small piece of mercy left in your heart, I beg one more favor._

_I am leaving Fódlan for good. I wish to see you once more before I go._

_My ship leaves at dawn on the final day of the month. I will wait on the docks at the southern end of Enbarr Harbor. I will wait all night, if I must._

_El, my love, my miraculous girl. Even if we should never meet again in this world, know that my greatest joy and greatest pride was to be,_

_Your mother,_

_**Patricia von Arundel** _

✦ ✧ ✦

The clerks all looked up when Hubert entered the Household office.

“Ansel,” he said, and the nearest steward rose at once to bow. “Is my father in?”

“No, Master Vestra. He’s at a meeting until three. Is there something we can assist you with?”

Hubert shook his head, already walking towards the door to the inner chamber. “No, it’s a trifling matter. The Crown Prince wishes to see an old Council report. I should be able to find it myself easily enough.” He tugged on the chain of his keys to pull them from his pocket into his hand, rattling them in a manner he hoped would seem casual, even bored. “No need to trouble yourself.”

“As you wish, sir,” Ansel replied. As he returned to his seat, Hubert heard him exhale with relief.

It was simple enough. The key fit in the lock. The lock clicked, and the doorknob turned under his hand. Hubert stepped into his father’s office and nothing jumped from the shadows, nothing sounded an alarm. Closing the door cut off the sounds of the clerks’ pens scratching.

He put his hand down on his father’s podium to test a hypothesis, and found it true: he was too tall to use it properly. _See?_ he chided himself, flexing his hand against the smooth wood. _You’ve outgrown it all. You have no reason to be so afraid._

He turned to the shelves.

His father’s inner office was surrounded by bookshelves on all sides, and navigating them was no easy task. Every few years, when the stacks of paper on the floor grew past tripping hazards into roadblocks and it felt like a wrestling match to pry just one volume from the shelves, his father ordered the clerks to take several years’ worth of records to the Imperial Archives to free up space. After all, they only needed the crucial reference books and most recent reports on hand. But Hubert knew there were some shelves here that were never disturbed, no matter how tightly packed or dust-covered they became.

The imperial decrees. Which included execution orders.

He summoned a flame and left it hovering in the air to provide better light to read the spines. They were organized by sovereign—at a glance, you could tell which emperors had been heavier-handed than others. Theodosius VII was fastidious enough that he filled the same number of pages every year. Ionius III had one slim volume compiled after his death in adolescence, and his regent Aelia I filled the rest of the shelf.

Despite being in power for nearly forty years, Ionius IX had only three books to his name. The latter two comprised the last ten years alone. Hubert pulled them from the shelf, and began searching.

 _1176\. Great Tree Moon. Harpstring Moon. Garland Moon. Blue Sea Moon._ _Imperial Decree on the Governing of the Armies Abroad on the Dagdan Continent. Imperial Decree Granting Authority over the Trade Council to the Prince Regent._

_Imperial Decree Dissolving the Noble House of Arundel._

He flipped through the pages, heart hammering in his chest. He felt the urge to take it all, to examine the case line-by-line, surely solid evidence for a future trial—but no, no, he only needed one piece right now. He waved the flame closer, squinting as he scanned for the familiar—

_“Lord Vestra! We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”_

Hubert almost dropped the book in his scramble to reach his dagger. As quickly as he could, he swiped the blade down the length of the page, cutting it free at the hinge. He stuffed it behind the breast of his coat with one hand while he frantically shoved the record book back in its place. Then he held his breath, unmoving, wondering if it would be more damning to wait here or to try sauntering out right in front of his father. But if he waited he’d look guilty, and if he tried to hide, surely Ansel would say something…

_“I have only returned because Lord Meerck, the brainless fool, forgot to bring his own notes on the expenses. I believe we have a copy still?”_

_“Yes, my lord.”_

_“Thank the Saints. As you were. But I expect, Ansel, to see more progress on that letter when I return. Judging by what I can read from here, I’m not very impressed.”_

_“Of course, my lord.”_

It took Hubert a moment after the door slammed again to remember that it was safe to breathe.

No one looked up as he emerged from the inner chamber, but Hubert could still feel their eyes upon him.

When he stopped in front of Ansel’s desk, he cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. “I have the report I need.”

Ansel nodded, pen still in his hand.

Looking at his ink-stained fingers, Hubert was suddenly struck by the strangest thought: that if you made all of the clerks and stewards under his father’s thumb roll up their sleeves and show their hands, you wouldn't be able to tell any of them apart. Dawn til dusk they all wrote and tallied and responded and requested. They all ran through the palace on empty stomachs making sure everyone else was fed. They all had to stand before his father’s podium while he sermonized on how badly they’d failed him.

They were all invisible. And most incredibly, most miraculously, they still thought of Hubert as one of them.

“Ansel,” he said, clearing his throat again, “could I ask one more favor?”

“Yes, Master Vestra?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve worked alongside you all. There are a few faces I don’t recognize, in fact. I think that I should arrange for the whole staff to meet soon. To go over some upcoming changes this year. Would you be able to arrange that?”

“I think so.” Ansel paused, and then asked, “On behalf of your father? Or for the Crown Prince?”

“Neither,” Hubert answered, and then with a nod took his leave.

* * *

Edelgard looked from Patricia’s confession of treason to the letter, her eyes darting between them with concentration, back and forth, back and forth.

“It’s the same,” she declared, sliding the two papers across the library table. “It’s her.”

“You can’t just look at the signatures,” Hubert said, reaching to examine them himself yet again. “What about the punctuation? The word choice? Does her handwriting have the same quirks, the same letter shapes? People can replicate a lot of things on a page.”

“‘Miraculous,’” Edelgard insisted. “She always called me that. That she prayed and prayed for a child with a Crest, after every other consort failed to have one, and then the Goddess sent me. And she obviously wouldn’t brag in front of anyone else.”

“How do you know? She could’ve said that to your father, and your father is never alone. Your uncle was also far from subtle about his pride that House Arundel continued Wilhelm’s bloodline. There are a million ways—”

Edelgard pushed back from the table, snatching the papers back as she snapped, “I know, I _know,_ but it’s _her,_ Hubert! I know my own mother! It nearly killed her to leave me the first time, and letting her leave this way would kill me too! The Archbishop understood—that’s why she let me come here in the first place!”

Hubert felt like he’d fallen out of his chair.

“You told Lady Rhea about your mother?” he demanded. “About what you—what happened during her arrest?”

“I…” Edelgard squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling hard through her nose. “Not everything, no. But I…she…I-I was so miserable after you left. I was furious at Anton for making this stupid deal, and angrier at myself for arranging it.” She sighed, shoulders sagging. “Lady Rhea would have me for tea regularly. Ask me about my classes, my training. But when you’re alone with her long enough, you find yourself just…confessing things. So when she asked if I enjoyed meeting Sitri, it all came flooding out of me: missing Enbarr and my family, feeling like Anton hated me for being born, worrying about my father, fearing that he would die out of my sight. I told her—begged her—that I had to see my father because my mother was already taken from me. That I might never know if she was still alive or dead, but the not-knowing hurt more than if she’d died in front of me.

“As soon as I said that, Lady Rhea put down her cup and told me to go back to Enbarr.” Edelgard sat down again, her fists clenched on the table. “A Knight of Seiros met me later and said I was given leave through the end of the Blue Sea Moon. I didn’t want to give her time to change her mind, so I left that very night.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Hubert’s thoughts were churning so rapidly that he wasn’t surprised when Edelgard squinted at him and answered exactly what he was thinking: “No, it’s not from her. If the Archbishop wanted me to return, she wouldn’t have to go to this much trouble.”

“But she could have,” Hubert groaned, raking his hands through his hair. “Anyone could have. Anyone who wants to get you alone.”

“Then I won’t go alone.”

“No.” He cut in before she could protest, “We take enough risks meeting the others already. We’re taking a risk being together even now.”

“Hubert,” she said. She reached over the table and took his hands. He stared down at them. Her fingers knotted with his, like a vine desperate to climb towards the sun.

“Hubert,” she said again, softer. Her hands, warm and calloused all over. Her hands that had killed, laced with his own, which done much worse. “Please. Please don’t make me beg again.”

His heart left him no choice. Of course he said yes.

* * *

A sickle-carved moon hung over Enbarr Harbor that night, watching the two of them like the slitted eye of a crouching cat. Hubert had stopped taking his hand off his dagger hilt; ever since they left the palace hill, he’d been gripping it as though enough pressure might meld it to his arm.

The busy harbor was never fully deserted, even in the dead of night. Every time they passed a gaggle of sailors laughing and slurring along to tavern songs, Hubert wound his arm around Edelgard’s shoulders and shot back his most murderous stare if any eyes lingered too long. He’d been to these dark corners of the city before and knew some people who wouldn’t forget a face; he feared at any moment someone would stop and say, “Hold a moment—isn’t that the Prince’s dog? What’s he doing, wandering without a leash?” But then he’d worry he was staring at strangers too long, and if he was distracted Edelgard would surely be snatched from his side.

It felt like a long, long walk, to be sure.

The southern end of the harbor was home to the ships bound for long voyages. A line of Faersh vessels were docked together like roosting birds, their hulls bearing the scars of the thick northern ice. A decadent schooner boasting the seal of House Boramas looked eager to bring its bounty of fine goods back east to decorate her owner’s manor. But the further they walked, the shabbier the sails became, the more rotted the planks. Hubert tensed at a sudden screech—but it was only a gull soaring overhead.

Edelgard squeezed his arm, bringing them to a stop.

“There’s someone on that pier ahead,” she whispered.

At this distance, it was impossible to know more than that; with a long cloak covering them head to foot, Hubert couldn’t tell if the figure had arms or legs, let alone if it was Lady Patricia. He fought his instinct to grip Edelgard tighter when she pulled away from him.

“I’ll walk ahead,” she decided. “Follow me, but at a distance.” She looked apologetic as she explained, “I don’t want her to think the palace set a trap.”

“I understand,” he agreed reluctantly. “Go on, my lady.”

As she walked away, he counted each of her steps. _One, two. One, two._ He tapped the beat against his palms with his thumbs, forming the base rhythm for the spell.

_One, two. One, two. **Hide me. Hide me. Hide me.**_

Slowly, the color bled from his hands. He looked down and saw his shadow waver, and then it too vanished. When Edelgard was thirty paces away, Hubert started after her, wholly invisible.

Step by step, she got further ahead. The sea wind prowled through the harbor, whistling through the forest of masts and ropes above their heads. When she reached the stranger’s dock, Edelgard paused. Hubert could read the hesitation in her tense posture, in the way her hands clenched at the folds of her skirt.

“Mother?” she called.

The stranger turned. In the face of the wind, her hood was quickly thrown from her head. It revealed dark hair tinged with grey. Round, high cheeks. A small, petal-pink mouth.

At the two ends of the dock, the Arundel women were an uncanny pair: some cautionary fairytale about a maiden glimpsing her future withered self. Edelgard stared at her mother for a long, long moment.

Then Patricia opened her arms, and she ran to her.

And the moment she reached her mother, both were swallowed by a bright flash of light.

The dock was empty.

As Hubert ran, his pounding pulse almost drowned out the roar in his mind—his outrage, his utter loathing for how stupid he’d been to lead Edelgard directly into the lion’s mouth. His invisibility spell fell apart at once, but if it looked strange to see a man flicker in and out like a candle flame as he tore down an empty dock, he didn’t care. He’d failed his only goal. He’d failed to keep her safe.

Frantic, furious, he didn’t see the loose board until it buckled under his foot. He tripped—no, Hubert _flew,_ pitched forward in the air like a cart rolling off a road. The old dock had no sympathy; he landed chin-first, feeling the burn of the wood scraping his skin and shredding the palms of his gloves. On the landing, his teeth clicked hard around his tongue. He tasted blood.

For a long moment, he just laid there. Like the useless thing that he was.

“Fuck,” he spat. His eyes stung with tears, and he hated that sting. He hated himself for pounding his fist against the planks, no better than a child in a tantrum. _“Fuck.”_

The wood beneath his hand sparked.

Quickly, Hubert got to his knees. He crawled across the dock, feeling the boards with his hands. There—there was a groove, thin enough that it could’ve been made with only a knife edge, carved into the planks. _**Light,**_ he ordered, and at once a purple flame roared to life and cut through the darkness.

Lady Patricia had lured Edelgard directly onto a warp sigil.

It was not the first sigil of its kind he’d ever encountered. There were a few in the palace: an ancient one connecting the small Imperial Chapel to the larger cathedral on the hill; a few used by kitchen servants to get to the market faster; a secret one rumored to take the consorts right to the emperor’s bed. Standing on a warp sigil felt like you stood at the end of a narrow ledge, feeling gravity tug at your ankles as you were about to jump down.

This sigil, though, felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. Like the bottom was too far below to measure.

Even the false sensation of falling made Hubert feel sick.

He’d long realized that Lady Patricia had never planned to take him along to Fhirdiad. But this time, he thought as he activated the sigil, he would not let her have the head start.

The spell consumed him. Hubert closed his eyes as he fell down…down…down…

* * *

He landed in a place with no sky.

That was the only way to describe it—the only way Hubert could comprehend it at all. He looked up and down and to every side but found nothing but darkness.

The effects of such a long-distance spell made stars burst in his eyes. His ears were still ringing as he stumbled off the receiving warp sigil and collided with a strange, smooth wall. A trail of light streaked across its surface from the spot he touched. He looked up again, and this time the darkness was cut by another trail of light moving in the opposite direction. A shooting star? On a ceiling?

With no means to discern any direction, he had to rely on the wall to guide him. Upon closer inspection, the lights that flitted across its surface were broken up into little pieces. They danced ahead of him as he felt blindly for where to turn. And then suddenly, the floor lit up too, and Hubert realized he was in a long hallway.

Wherever this was, it was far, far from Enbarr.

The lights split into other shapes as they stretched down the hall. By their regular spacing, Hubert guessed they were the outlines of doors. But he found no handles or hinges to open them with. Aside from his own breathing and a strange buzz that seemed to come from the lights themselves, there were no sounds of life anywhere. Had he tripped through the warp sigil into some kind of prison? Could he ever find Edelgard in this place?

He nearly tripped backwards when a loud thumping came from behind him: a rhythmic, metallic noise. _Footsteps._

Hubert cast invisibility on himself to the frantic beat of his own heart: _**HidemeHidemeHideme.**_ He pressed himself against the wall, trying to breathe as little as possible. The spell completed barely seconds before two people rounded the corner, arguing in clipped, angry tones.

“Why is everything so difficult for you fools?” snapped Lady Patricia as she passed within inches of Hubert. “This project has fallen from my esteem ever since Solon was removed from it!”

“Our last subject was _willing,”_ hissed the hooded mage at her side. “You should’ve subdued this one properly before handing it over!”

“You’re lucky I handed it over at all, Zosimos! We could be set back another century while Thales waits for his ‘ideal conditions.’ We could lose the first Crest of Seiros with the trial still incomplete, and he would’ve given this one back to the beasts!”

“I’d rather they have it back!” When the two turned at the end of the hall, Hubert waited one breath before following, treading as lightly as he could to avoid giving his presence away. “Just see what it’s done already!”

Zosimos increased his pace, trotting angrily ahead of Patricia. Two more turns and then they stopped at a door. A door that, in spite of its seamless surface, was having a difficult time staying closed. The whole section of wall quaked with a harsh metallic _bang,_ the strange lights fizzling around the edge like a bleeding wound.

“Stand back,” warned Zosimos as he pressed his hand to the door’s center. The light traced an outline of his palm, and then blinked as though in recognition. Lady Patricia only grunted, standing her ground. But a few feet away, Hubert raised his arms in a casting stance, just in case.

With a hiss, the door slid to the side.

Another mage fell through the opening—with thick, black blood pouring from their slit neck, their red eyes glassy and wide.

 _Anton’s shapeshifters,_ Hubert realized with horror _._ _I’m trapped in the cave they all crawled out of._

Lady Patricia sniffed with scorn. She kicked the body aside with her foot before striding through the door. Zosimos seemed rightfully upset, but still edged around the growing pool of blood to hurry after her.

The outline of the door glowed again. Hubert darted forward when it began to hiss, and managed to get past the threshold just before it closed again.

Then he flinched from the sudden pain blooming in his eyes. For in contrast to the hall, the room they’d entered was blindingly white. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, all glassy and thrumming. A long, unadorned table without legs rose from the floor, with strange instruments set carefully upon it in neat rows. A mage was cowering behind it. This one was cradling their bleeding arm to their chest; one glance at it told Hubert it would take several hours and an army of healers to set all their broken bones right again.

“M-Master,” they whimpered as Lady Patricia walked past, but received no response. She was headed for the opposite side of the room, where another cluster of mages were shouting to one another. They were all clutching long staffs that sparked at the ends. Their frenzied arguments were only broken by a harsh, furious scream.

 _“Edelgard,”_ Hubert breathed.

They’d strapped her to an upright slab—or rather, they’d attempted to. Her right hand and foot were cuffed, but the other chain meant for her left side was wrapped tight around the throats of two more dead mages at her feet. She’d gotten her hands on one of their staffs. Each attempt to strike her was met with an aggressive parry. Red blood dripped from a cut on her cheek, but black blood coated her chained hand, still gripping a narrow blade. _I do carry a knife, if it soothes you._

“Disgraceful,” Lady Patricia spat as she surveyed the disorder. “‘See what it’s done?’ All I see is what _you’ve_ done: made a mess of one simple task.”

She snatched a prod from the table. With a flourish, it extended into a longer staff. She waved it, and Hubert saw more colored lights form and move along the room’s white walls to its white floor, etching into a spell sigil at Lady Patricia’s feet. He recognized the form for lightning.

When she slammed the staff down, it erupted throughout the entire room.

During his childhood training, Hubert had been hit many times with lightning attacks. The sensation, he often thought, must be what a fish feels the moment it’s dropped in a fryer: horrible heat bubbling and popping all through your body, then pins and needles crawling through you afterward. But those were child’s spells, meant to stun—not burn.

Lady Patricia spared no one. The mages jerked and twitched in agony just as Hubert did. The lights danced whenever the bolts struck the walls, and then they twisted into more sigils and sent the bolts hurling back. Hubert watched his invisibility burn out in the surprised, detached sense that only great pain could produce. His mind seemed a separate thing from his helpless body.

 _This room must amplify magic,_ he thought. Then, _I have to hide before I’m seen._

The moment the spell ended, he let himself fall behind the tall table. Maybe the fried fish was too gentle a comparison. His limbs felt liquified. He could see the tips of his fingers smoking. The other mages were all groaning as Lady Patricia walked forward with decisive steps.

“What did I order you, Zosimos?” she said in a low voice. “What was my express instruction?”

Zosimus mumbled something incoherent. More footsteps, and then a pained wail pierced Hubert’s ears.

“I said, _Do not spill one drop of blood.”_

Hubert lifted his head. He was on the same side as the mage with the broken arm, who stirred weakly on the floor. Gritting his teeth, he crawled on his elbows until he was near enough to grab their ankle beneath their long robes. The floor lit up the Nosferatu sigil beneath him.

_**Give me your breath your warmth your life, your life is mine your life is mine mine mine.** _

The mage made no sound as the last of their energy flowed out of them and into Hubert. It felt like cool water beautifully easing the lightning’s burn. And it felt stronger than Hubert had ever been able to cast it of his own power. His body healed at twice the rate he expected, while the other mage died twice as fast.

“Yet what do I see on her face?” Despite receiving no answer, Lady Patricia pressed on. “How much of our waning resource has your carelessness wasted?”

“Master,” Zosimos begged now, “please, Master Periandra—”

Hubert’s heart stopped cold.

“So that’s who you really are?” Edelgard demanded with trembling fury. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear the chains groan as she strained against their hold. “Where’s my mother? What did you do to her? Bled her dry, like my father?”

“Foolish girl,” Periandra laughed. And there it was, too familiar: the sounds of the transformation. The sickening pops of bones, the stretch of ligaments and muscle, the ripping of skin. “Your mother didn’t bear a Crest. Why would we need her blood at all?”

The chains rustled harder, but Edelgard’s defense would still be limited while pinned. Hubert flexed his fingers and slipped his dagger from its sheath. _Dulls our magic,_ Monica had complained of her false skin. But in years of study, he’d never beaten his old magic teacher in a single match.

“But let it be said,” hissed Periandra, and over the sounds of Edelgard struggling he caught the thrum of the room change again—ready for another spell to be cast, “that the House of Arundel did fight to the last.”

Hubert had never won against Master Periandra. But there was no proper way to fight.

So he had no second thoughts for honor when he leapt over the table, rushed her from behind, slammed her into a smooth wall, and drove his dagger through her eye.

Thanks to the lightning, the other mages were slow to react at first. Hubert split open one’s chest before they could raise their hands to cast, then dodged a poorly-aimed miasma cloud and easily overwhelmed the next. By the time the others were ready to fight, he was already tearing them down.

It was no proper fight. His magic ricocheted from the walls gleefully, snapping legs, twisting heads. Black blood streaked across the white floors. He didn’t count how many he’d killed, only that he couldn’t stop until none were left.

_“Despicable rat!”_

A gust of wind hit him square in the chest, throwing him against the table with enough force to knock everything else off. The wind wrapped around him like a sheet, becoming a coil of thorns, carving through his skin in every direction. Hubert hissed through his teeth as he grabbed it, reshaped it into a whip, and hurled it back at Periandra. The lights on the walls were flickering so rapidly it made him dizzy, spells casting and bouncing and breaking, magic so thick in the air it made his hair stand on end. Periandra roared at him, the skin of her face stretching uselessly around the gaping hole where her eye had been. Her blood streaked down her face as thick as tar.

“You—disgusting—little— _worm!”_ she screamed, each word punctuated by another blast of energy that nearly knocked him off his feet. Hubert put up a shield, but her attacks were so powerful that he couldn’t spare any of his concentration to fire back. “I will flay your skin from your bones! I will pry your limbs apart! I will feed you to the beasts, and then I’ll piece you back together and devour you again!”

His shield shattered into shards of light. Hubert tried to dodge, but he wasn’t quick enough—dark spikes shot up from the ground. He was thrown against the table so hard that it shook. Magic bubbled up around his legs, solidifying into black crystal. He reached down to shatter it, but it only crawled up his arms. Trapped his hands.

When he looked up, Periandra’s hand seized his throat.

“Vermin,” she growled as Hubert gasped for air. She reached past him to grab something from the table—his stomach felt the threat of some sharp, pointed tip, ready to sink in. “You are _vermin_. I don’t care what plans have been made. You are vermin, and for betraying your master I will kill you like vermin.”

“Then lose your research subject, too.”

There was a great _crack,_ a sound so thunderous that Hubert thought for a delirious second that Periandra had snapped his neck. Her grip loosened as she whirled around, and he sucked in a breath moments before his vision was almost wholly black.

When his eyes focused, he saw Edelgard. She had ripped her chains right out of the slab.

She was holding Hubert’s dagger to her own throat.

Periandra squeezed his neck again, but with far more control now.

“You,” she warned Edelgard, “are a nuisance indeed. You will be better behaved after some time in the cells, as your real mother clearly neglected to teach you any discipline.”

Edelgard didn’t flinch. “No. But she taught me how to make a deal. So here’s my offer.” The chains around her other wrist clanked as she began peeling down her collar, placing the blade directly against her skin. “Give Hubert back to me, and you can have my blood. Or kill him and watch the Crest of Seiros drip away.”

Periandra laughed mirthlessly.

“You assume I’m lying,” Edelgard said, “and require proof I’ll keep my word. I’m happy to oblige.”

Hubert gagged as he watched her take the dagger to her shoulder _and slashed across the front of her chest._

Blood. It rose quickly to the surface. It pooled in glistening ruby droplets against Edelgard’s pale skin. It dripped from her collarbone in thin rivers, streaming into the fabric of her shirt.

“How much is it worth?” she said, making a second cut next to the first almost idly, uncaring. “I wouldn’t mind getting rid of the whole Crest, to be honest. If I cut here—” she indicated her thigh with the dagger tip, “—it could be gone in minutes. Or here.” She turned her arm to draw a line up the inside of her wrist. “Or I could simply choose what’s most effective.” The dagger returned to the side of her neck.

Periandra was silent.

“Of course, I’ll need proof from you as well.” The chain on Edelgard’s ankle dragged against the floor with a horrible whine as she walked over to one of the injured mages Hubert had failed to take care of. “Since this scene was so clearly embarrassing for you, I imagine it would be quite disgraceful if word should get out that you were bested by the two of us. You’d send Hubert home, but send one of these after him, and down here I’d be none the wiser. So prove you’ll be honest.” She pointed the dagger down at the mage, who seemed frozen with confusion. “Kill the rest.”

Hubert’s labored breathing was the loudest sound in the room. He couldn’t see Periandra’s face as she and Edelgard both held their ground, as the white ruffle of Edelgard’s shirt was slowly dyed crimson.

Then, slowly, Periandra raised her hand and uttered a spell so potent that Hubert could feel the shiver carry down her arm. A huge sigil yawned across the floor like a fissure in the earth.

The other mages didn’t make any sound as the whirlpools bloomed underneath them, rocketing to the ceiling. They didn’t have the time to scream. When the spell faded, only he, Periandra, and Edelgard were still intact.

Edelgard nodded. “Release him to me. Once he warps away, I’ll drop the knife.”

It wasn’t a gentle release; the moment Periandra let go of his throat, Hubert collapsed as the crystals around his legs and hands shattered. He slid against the blood-slick floor as he clumsily stood, walking to Edelgard with wobbling steps. His voice grated on his own ears as he rasped, _“Lady Edelgard—”_

“Hubert.” She gripped his hand with her chained one to help him balance. “This is not the time to disobey me. Do you understand?”

She spoke loudly and clearly enough that Periandra could hear, which frightened him. Surely she didn’t really mean to die? But when he protested, she gripped his wrist so tightly it almost hurt. She stared at him, unblinking.

“I mean it,” she repeated. “Do not. Disobey.”

Hubert didn’t move. Her thumb was moving, scratching against his skin. Making a shape.

“This is paying you back,” she continued, “for pulling me from the fireplace.” Another shape. Her nail bit hard as it lapped over and over in a circle—was it a circle? “It will be hard, but you have to let go. Can you do that?”

It wasn’t a circle. It had a point at the end, where her nail dug in. Like a teardrop. Or an egg.

Hubert turned his hand over and squeezed her back, as hard as he could. “I-I understand, my lady. Yes.”

“Good. Then on five, you will go.” Edelgard swallowed. “One…”

Hubert thought of that fireplace: the one in the Arundel apartments, where black flames ate the dead guard until nothing remained. He thought of how the smoke smelled, how the ashes tried to chew through his flesh.

“Two…”

Hubert thought of hunger. The kind that gnaws at your bones, the kind that tries to crawl free from your gut. He thought of the days he couldn’t eat for fear of slipping behind on lessons, how his stomach growled like an angry animal. What he would’ve done to sate it.

“Three…”

“You try my patience, girl,” Periandra snarled. “A cell is not the only way to make you behave.”

“Four…”

Hubert thought of what he wanted _._

On five, Edelgard summoned the Crest of Seiros. It bloomed around them, a protective shell. And Hubert raised his hands and commanded,

_**Burn.** _

Had they been anywhere else, it would’ve killed him. Hubert didn’t have the stamina to summon such a spell and keep it going, keep casting despite Periandra’s roars and counterattacks that hammered the surface of Edelgard’s Crest with the force of a charging animal. A spell like this sucked the energy out of the caster, cut you open and bled you the longer you kept it up.

But in this room, dark fire leapt from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Sigils danced on every surface. Black fire lapped up Periandra’s legs, ate away at her cloak and then her flesh and then her bone. It devoured her as she screamed, flinging spells to blast it away, but to no avail. It was so hungry. It was _starving_.

 _ **Burn,**_ Hubert ordered. _**Consume.**_ The fire did not disobey.

He may have fallen to his knees before Periandra did. But when Edelgard finally released her Crest, there wasn’t enough left of his teacher’s body to kneel.

His vision swam. His hands were wracked with tremors, twitching with the static-like energy from so much casting. He barely felt Edelgard embrace him and press a fast kiss to his forehead. The sounds as she pried her chains off with some of the tools from the table seemed to come from miles away.

“Can you remember what the warp circle looked like?” she asked, shaping his hand around the hilt of his dagger. She smoothed his hair back from his eyes. “Don’t worry if your hands shake, I can redraw it. You can do it, you can remember, I know you can.”

And because she said so, he didn’t even try to doubt.

* * *

Hubert was dreaming. He was stumbling along the cobblestone streets, his arm slung around Edelgard’s shoulders.

“Haven’t we done this before?” he slurred. He tried to feel for the wound on his left shoulder but couldn’t reach. Edelgard’s shoe caught on a crack in the road, making them lurch to the side. “Sorry. Not very good at dancing, am I, my lady?”

The dream changed. He was floating down the canal, listening to the sounds of the water lapping gently around him. The current carried him through Enbarr, around corners, beneath bridges, their long shadows eclipsing the skyline as they passed beneath. He wondered if his old knife was still rusting somewhere beneath the waves.

 _“Stay awake!”_ urged Edelgard. She leaned above him with an oar clutched in each hand. He hoped her dress wouldn’t be ruined from the splashing. _“You have to stay awake, please, Hubert, we’re almost there.”_

He nodded, even though he couldn’t fathom how he was supposed to stay awake within a dream. With a jolt, they hit something solid—a dock, yes, they docked—and he nodded again at the order to wait. Waiting was pleasant on such a night in this dream. The water rocked him to contentment, the stars twinkling in the blanket of the dark sky.

 _“Oh dear,”_ someone said. _“He’s really been drained, hasn’t he.”_

He blinked, and Dorothea formed suddenly in front of him. “Miss Arnault,” he greeted her when her hands cupped his cheeks.

 _“Sorry,”_ she said, giving his face a little pat. _“But this will feel a bit rough. I don’t have a very light touch with healing magic.”_

She dug her thumbs into his temples and pushed him fully below the surface.

* * *

Hubert jolted awake, sputtering, but found himself completely dry—and even stranger, in a bed.

“I told you,” Dorothea sighed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in nightclothes. A wet, blood-stained rag was clutched in her hand. “Three whole years of slogging through Faith exams and I still never got the hang of it. You should have all your faculties intact, though. Now hold still.”

Hubert could only swallow in reply as she resumed dabbing the blood off his bare chest. Looking down, he found his whole torso crisscrossed with pink slashes from Periandra’s attacks. The marks continued to fade as Dorothea worked; by the time the healing spell ran its course, he wouldn’t have a single scar.

When she turned to wring the cloth out in the washbasin, Hubert finally had enough stamina to grab her wrist.

“Where,” he gasped, “where’s—”

“In the bath,” Dorothea replied. “Goddess above, she was filthier than you were. My landlady will look the other way if I smuggle guests in now and then, but I’m going to be out a lot of gold to get her to forget seeing that much blood.”

“And is she—”

“If Edie were dying, I wouldn’t have sent her to the bath, would I?” With a grip far stronger than he expected, she pried him off of her arm. “Hold _still,_ I said.”

Rough as the casting had been, Dorothea’s healing powers still proved effective. By the time she declared him clean enough, the fog had lifted from his head, even if the fatigue hadn’t. He laid back watching Dorothea bustle around the room. It was a small dormitory, boasting one window and four walls pockmarked with nails to display her large, haphazard collection of opera programs, letters, and dried flowers. The most expensive thing in view was her dressing gown: imported silk, but judging by the worn hem, clearly pre-owned.

When Dorothea caught him surveying, she smiled proudly and rapped her knuckles on the wall.

“Been renting this room since I was fifteen. See the awful peeling paint? I wove so many shielding spells into the walls every year that it’s practically a vault. You could scream bloody murder and no one would hear; necessary because the girl next-door snored like a damned bear.” She nodded to the faded rug near the door. “Trigger spell on that too. Had to stop my neighbors from ‘borrowing’ my things after my favorite necklace had a night on the town and never returned. No one will be able to get you here.”

“Getting _me_ isn’t the problem,” Hubert grunted. But Dorothea didn’t look worried.

“Well, we’ve already solved that,” she shrugged. “But I’d rather let Edie explain the plan.”

 _Plan?_ Hubert was about to ask, but then the trigger rug glowed. Dorothea swept aside the hanging laundry to look through the peephole, then opened the door with a smile.

The first thing he noticed about Edelgard was her shift: doubtlessly borrowed from her taller friend, it was too large for her. The collar hung low enough that he could see two pink strokes across her upper chest. They would heal just like his. But the reminder of what she would have done was seared deeply in his mind nonetheless.

As Dorothea ushered her inside, Edelgard’s eyes fell on Hubert. She hurried to the bedside.

“Are you alright?” she asked, passing a hand over his forehead, squinting down at the marks on his chest. “Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented? Does anything hurt?”

“I’m alright,” Hubert said quietly. He took Edelgard’s hand from his forehead. Her skin was still warm and flushed from the bath. “I’m sorry. That’s twice now you’ve had to carry me.”

Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Twice that you’ve had to burn my bodies.”

The tense quiet was broken when Dorothea cleared her throat.

“Well, I have some more things to arrange before you go,” she announced, tying her dressing gown sash with a decisive knot, “and you two have details to discuss. Edie, I’ll come back to wake you in the morning.”

Edelgard frowned. “Dorothea, I couldn’t kick you out of your own room—” she started, but Dorothea stopped her with a shake of her head.

“I’m not cruel enough to make two injured people sleep on the floor. I’ll bunk with Estella down the hall. She owes me a favor for getting her out of chorus roles, and even better, she doesn’t snore.” She threw a coat over her arms and stuffed her feet into unbuttoned shoes. “Just try to get a _little_ sleep, hm? Your wounds are looking better than those dark circles, Master Vestra.”

“I’ll do my best, Miss Arnault,” Hubert sighed, but with sincerity added, “Thank you.” Dorothea smiled at him as she slipped out.

For a moment they just sat together. The flickering candlelight and Dorothea’s spell-laden walls made the room feel like it existed in its own pocket of space. Edelgard was still holding his hand. Her thumb drew a slow path over his knuckles, tracing each dip and ridge between his fingers.

“Dorothea mentioned a plan?” he finally prompted her.

Edelgard exhaled, her chest sinking. “Yes. The plan is that I leave Enbarr this very morning. I won’t return until I have the means to take the throne by force.”

Hubert’s stomach clenched. “My lady—”

“The Mittelfrank Opera Company is sending a scout to a few cities to find theaters for next year’s touring production,” she continued over him. “He’s going to take me as far as Hevring County, where Linhardt’s contacts will arrange my spot in a caravan headed for Garreg Mach. Bernadetta will use her father’s ministry to contact the monastery ahead of time, informing Lady Rhea of my imminent return. If I know her at all, she’ll have the Knights of Seiros waiting day and night on the mountain roads to bring me back.

“And then,” Edelgard took a short breath, “I will accept her offer to become a Holy Knight.”

Hubert stared at her.

“She will grant me a Major Crest.” Edelgard released his hand to twist hers in her lap. “I’ve heard it’s not a pleasant experience, but it’s an advantage. And it will lend me more legitimacy; the Church will doubtlessly be unhappy when I revolt, but I’ve been more loyal to them than Anton has been. At the very least, my favored status might keep them off our backs until the court has been purged of my brother’s loyalists. Maybe they’ll even lend a hand in driving off these—these infiltrators. We can leverage that the enemy knows of the Crest Stones in the Holy Mausoleum.”

“Lady Edelgard.” Hubert sat up slowly. “As a Holy Knight, fleeing from your order to overthrow the Empire would make you a traitor twice over. The Archbishop would have as much right to execute you as your brother.”

“I know,” she said. “But after tonight, I’ve realized that given the choice, I’d rather die by executioner than locked away and rotting in that room.” A rueful smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “You did warn me I’d have to draw the sword sooner or later.”

Hubert closed his eyes as he sighed, “Which was stupid of me. By now I should know you never take my advice in the way it’s given.”

That, at least, got her smile to grow into something real.

“Don’t be pessimistic. Maybe someday I will, just to humor you. For now, though…” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from her shift. “There’s a great deal of work to do.”

* * *

Dorothea would’ve scolded him, but how was he supposed to rest? Edelgard camped at the desk with the lone candle, writing the letters to put her escape in motion: apologies to her family for the sudden leave, instructions for Ferdinand and Caspar to start organizing, a note to Petra on making the impossible Brigid alliance a little more possible. Hubert laid down to appease her worries about his recovery, but he couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t look away from her. How long would it be before they were reunited? He was terrified that this time, he’d really forget what she looked like.

It was nearly dawn when he gave up on feigning sleep. Edelgard turned when she heard the creak of the bed as Hubert stretched, grimacing at the crack of his stiff joints.

“I’m going out,” he said. He grabbed the spare shirt from a former beau Dorothea had dug up for him and pulled it over his head. The sleeves didn’t cover his wrists, but it would suffice for decency. “Just to be sure no one’s lying in wait.”

Edelgard didn’t look pleased, but he made it out the door before she had a rebuttal ready.

The sickle moon was sinking towards the horizon now. Hubert took in the neighborhood as he rounded the block, checking every shadow and corner. To the west, the peak of the Opera House could be seen peeking above the many tiled red roofs. Dorothea’s old boardinghouse sat in a proud spot beside a narrow but pretty canal. Hubert spotted the small boat from his ‘dream’ lashed at the nearest dock. He felt plenty guilty that Edelgard had had no other means to bring him here.

Near the end of his lap around the neighborhood, a glimmering object near the gutter caught his eye. He bent down to find it was a small compact mirror, broken at the hinge. It was of cheap quality, but the tin case was painted with a sprig of tiny blue flowers. Hubert recognized them—they’d dotted the mountain hills when he rode north with Sitri that spring.

It was a silly idea. But he cleaned the mirror on his sleeve and slipped it into his pocket anyway.

Edelgard let him back into the room. Before she could return to the desk, he cleared his throat, making her pause.

“My lady, the last time we parted ways, you were kind enough to give me two gifts. I want to return the favor.”

“Oh?” She looked surprised, but not displeased. When he gestured to the bed, she sat down, setting her hands neatly on her knees. “You’re certainly not obligated. But I did wonder what was taking you so long out there; I just didn’t guess you went shopping,” she joked.

“Well, without any coin in my pockets, I had temper my expensive taste,” Hubert warned as he sat beside her, then instructed, “Now hold out your hands, please, and close your eyes.”

She did as he asked. Hubert waited a few more seconds just to draw out the suspense before he placed the mirror in her right hand and a rock in her left.

“Alright. Open.”

Edelgard had been brought up under the strict teachings of noble manners. It was very, _very_ amusing to watch her school her face into a polite expression when she realized what she was holding. Hubert struggled not to laugh as she studied her gifts wearing a look of fake fascination, as though he’d handed her jewels rather than a broken trinket and a piece of gravel.

“It’s, ah, pretty,” she said of the mirror, turning it over to study the flowers. “Oh, robin’s-eye!” She stared at her other hand a moment before resigning, “I am…very curious about the rock, though.”

“The rock was the best I could do.” Hubert plucked it from her hand and curled his fingers around it, holding it like a piece of sketching charcoal to demonstrate. “It’s impossible to get your hands on a diamond this time of night, I’m afraid.”

Edelgard’s blank stare told him further explanation was needed.

“But it should do the job anyway.” He turned the mirror back over, tapping the center. “After all, if we’re going to be crusaders, first we’ve got to carve our names on Cethleann’s Glass.”

“Cethleann’s Glass? Why would—” Then she stilled with a gasp.

Hubert had thought it’d feel silly, and it did. But he hadn’t thought it would also bring tears to her eyes.

“Here,” he said with forced enthusiasm, reaching for the mirror. One glance at the glass informed him his cheeks were burning red already. “I’ll start.” With three strokes, he scratched a simple _H_ on one side. He pressed the gifts back into her hands without looking up, for fear that he’d really see her cry. He had no idea what would happen if he did, but he knew it would only make everything harder than it already was.

So he kept his gaze on the little reflection, watching Edelgard blink until her eyes were dry again. Then she took the rock and carved a perfect _E_ in one swooping line.

The pledge was complete. They sat in silence.

“Hubert,” she said, but did not seem to know what should follow. She bit the inside of her cheek as she gathered her words, then said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this? To put me on the throne?”

He nodded. When her worry didn’t fade, he added dryly, “I haven’t changed my mind in the last few minutes.”

“I just want to be sure that you’ve considered the outcomes,” she insisted. “If this fails—if I fail—there will be no mercy for us. You’ll die, Hubert.” Her voice cracked slightly on the words. “You’ll die because of me.”

Carefully, Hubert took the mirror and rock from her and set them on the floor before he slipped his hand into hers. He studied her slender fingers and realized that the Emperor’s signet ring would have to be remade to fit. When he kissed her hand, her bare knuckle where it would someday sit, the motion already felt so easy.

“Lady Edelgard,” he said in a hush, “I would rather die for you than live even one more day for anyone else.”

This time, he wasn’t surprised by her sudden embrace.

To be kissed, though—that was unexpected.

It was so quick that he spent half the kiss piecing together what was going on. Edelgard’s nose was squashed against his. A strand of her hair tickled his cheek. _She’s kissing you,_ Hubert thought, and then, _Close your eyes, Goddess’s sake!_ But as soon as he did, Edelgard pulled away.

She exhaled deeply, as though finally a great weight had left her shoulders.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” she said, “since I was twelve years old.”

“To…to kiss someone?”

She gave a short laugh. “To kiss _you._ ”

His shock must’ve been obvious, for Edelgard scooted back, studying him closely. Then her eyes went wide.

“You didn’t know?” she demanded, incredulous. “Hubert, you really didn’t know?! It’s been so—it’s been _forever_. I was twelve. You caught me in the library. I showed you my Crest. You thought you scared me when you examined it, but my heart was running faster than a racehorse because you touched me. I imagined leaning across that table and kissing you. I thought about it for weeks—months!—after.”

“Then? But—”

“And I fancied you long before that! When Anton was at school, when you watched over Father, I always pestered you to read your books. Yes, I liked learning about the Empire, but it began as just a ploy to get you to talk to me.

“When I was five, perhaps? Four? Anton spilled scalding tea on me during a visit. I cried and cried and my mother couldn’t calm me. But while the other servants ran for the healer, you convinced me, somehow, to give you my burnt hand. It glowed white, and then the burn was gone. And you looked at me with your serious little face and you said, ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it, my lady?’

“That’s all it took.” She shook her head. “I was smitten.”

Hubert blinked. He didn’t understand how she could be so calm while he felt like something fundamental had changed in the universe in the last few minutes—gravity reversed, the planets reordered.

“I don’t believe you,” he insisted. “I can’t even remember all of that.”

“You think I’d lie?” Edelgard scoffed. “You think I’d make up an entire lifetime of memories of how lovesick I was for my brother’s vassal?”

“It wouldn’t be the first prank you ever pulled on me.”

She looked at him as though he’d just tried to argue her hair was pink instead of brown.

“A prank,” she repeated. “I see. Then I’ll have to prove how serious I am.”

This time the kiss was a different kind of surprise.

Solid. Warm. Soft, she was so _soft_ , every movement of her mouth, every brush of her hands. Her fingers smoothed through his hair, along his cheeks, down his neck and over his back with languid grace. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tugged him closer until they were chest-to-chest. She kissed him with such fervor that he had to grab her waist for balance, lest she topple them over.

She kissed him like she had mapped this out a dozen times, a hundred. She kissed his cheeks and his nose and the center of his throat in decisive order. Hubert didn’t think about whether he should open or close his eyes; he didn’t think at all, didn’t want to ever again. He hugged Edelgard as close as she could be. He opened his mouth for her. Bared his neck for her. Felt his heart leap every time he made her gasp.

Finally, she pulled back, leaving a space with barely enough room for him to breathe in.

“Do you believe me now?” she whispered.

Hubert tried to catch his breath.

“I’m becoming convinced,” he admitted. “But I may need more proof.”

Her harsh words as she pushed him down against the mattress were a poor match for how happy she looked to do so.

Hubert wanted so many things. He wanted time to slow down as they kissed and kissed, to grant them days instead of hours. He wanted to see the sun come up and thread Edelgard’s dark hair with gold. But when Dorothea’s crooked desk clock chimed the hour, he couldn’t stop himself from automatically calculating how long it would take him to return to the palace.

“You don’t _have_ to go,” Edelgard protested. Her breath ghosted over his collarbone as she kissed a path across his shoulders. “Anton has sent you out all night before. It wouldn’t be strange to the servants.”

Hubert scoffed. “And what if he asks me himself? What do I tell him?”

“Why, the truth.” She smirked. “That you spent the evening in an opera singer’s bed.”

“Ha, ha. That would still be a breach of Imperial Household rules.”

“We’ve broken a hundred rules tonight already. What’s the harm in one more?”

She lowered herself down, nestling her head under his chin. Her hand stroked the plane of his chest slowly, making a meandering path around his ribs, up along the valley of his breastbone. She travelled over the hill of his shoulder and down his arm, and then came to rest on his bicep.

Beneath his shirt, he felt her trace the old stitched scar.

“This is the part where you say this is a bad idea,” she murmured.

Hubert breathed in, feeling her weight against him. Slowly, he drew a line up the center of her back, following the line of her spine until he reached her neck. She shivered as he swept her loose hair away from her skin.

“No, my lady,” he said. “This is a _terrible_ idea.”

She threw back her head and laughed. For the rest of his life, he’d remember that sound.

He didn’t hesitate to kiss her again.

* * *

On the first of the Blue Sea Moon, Hubert’s father was waiting for him.

It was funny, he thought as he bowed, he didn’t think he would actually have to use Edelgard’s excuse. He’d made it past the guards, the stables, the kitchens, and the scribbling clerks without any incident. Not a single person had bothered to ask Hubert why he was dressed in ill-fitting clothes or why his hair looked such a sight. He figured it was probably more entertaining for the gossips to come up with answers, rather than go to him for them.

But his father didn’t ask either. He looked over his podium and said instead, “I wanted to be the first to offer my congratulations.”

Hubert blinked. His father smiled.

“The Imperial Physician was here early this morning to confirm. Princess Sitri is with child.”

Perhaps anyone else would’ve believed his stunned silence was due to happy surprise. His father, of course, knew better.

“That is…wonderful news,” Hubert finally managed, twisting his hands behind his back. “His Highness will be very pleased. Though this time, he will want to wait before making arrangements, since the others—”

“Even better news, my son.” His father set down his pen. “The doctor told me Her Highness’ condition is well-developed. She’s made it through the most difficult time already. Unlike the others, this child has grown four months strong.”

He stepped out from the podium. His hand was heavy on Hubert’s shoulder.

“We will have an Imperial Heir by the end of the year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the grave* heyyy guys
> 
> Well, in spite of severe life burnout, job garbage, computer garbage, the unending fatigue of living through 76384573 historical events per week, I am still here and still writing this!! Thank you for your patience if you've been waiting for an update, and I hope you have been doing as well as we all can be right now <33
> 
> And now, the footnotes:
> 
> \- Signet rings or references to them have appeared several times by now, so let's have some facts! Signet rings of the Middle Ages were typically destroyed after their wearer died to prevent post-mortem forgery. Anton and Ionius have worn their own unique rings since the beginning of this story; Anton already owning one being a sign that he is already expected to handle duties to the throne and have his own bureaucratic responsibilities that would require one.
> 
> \- The Faersh ships in Enbarr Harbor are based on Russian [kochi,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16OLm8u12c8) which have rounded hulls that help the ship escape being trapped between ice sheets--when pressure is exerted on the ship, the round shape helps the ship pop out without major damage that would breach the hull.
> 
> \- If you can summon a magical moon that becomes a black hole that swallows your enemies, I think you should plausibly have an invisibility spell in FE3H. Don't come for my DND ass with the concentration mechanics lmao
> 
> \- In keeping with the ancient Greek theme for Agarthan names, Zosimos was named for [Zosimos of Panopolis, author of the oldest known books on alchemy.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zosimos_of_Panopolis)
> 
> \- I picture Dorothea owning a lot of hand-me-down fancy items (like the silk dressing gown) from Manuela when she left the opera company. They're nearly the same height, so they would fit!!!
> 
> \- Robin's eye is another colloquial name for _Myosotis scorpioides_ , probably more familiar as the forget-me-not. Its symbolism is fairly obvious ;)


End file.
